


Alexios Prompts and Drabbles

by author_morgan



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Assassin's Creed Odyssey
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:47:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 23,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23495524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/author_morgan/pseuds/author_morgan
Summary: A collection of drabbles for Alexios and Deimos!Alexios based on requested prompts from my Tumblr: author-morgan.
Relationships: Alexios (Assassin's Creed)/Reader, Deimos (Assassin’s Creed)/Reader
Comments: 14
Kudos: 180





	1. Alexios - "You're insane." 'You love me.' "Not right now I don't."

A FIRM HAND wraps around your wrist, dragging you down into a thick patch of shrubbery budding with bright red flowers yet to open. The abruptness of the action forces a small, surprised yelp from your lips as you land atop something softer than the dry Messaran ground. Alexios glances down at you —head pillowed on his chest— and smiles with those tawny-gold eyes that still make your knees go weak even after all this time. 

Off in the distance, you can hear the soldiers cursing and shouting, undoubtedly preparing to put a bounty on both your heads for stealing and murder if they didn’t find you first. The little old crone by the port of Kydonia had told you and Alexios bandits stole her most prized possession —a brilliant golden necklace adorned with pearls and stones as blue as the Aegean. The last gift and reminder of her late husband. It hadn’t been bandits, but Spartans —a whole small regiment of them. 

_There’s no shame in foregoing this task_ you’d said upon seeing the encampment, but Alexios wasn’t one to walk away. _I always finish what I started_ he’d replied in that infuriating cocksure tone of his. You reach up, rubbing the fresh scratch on your cheek, frowning. The shrub isn’t large enough for one person —let alone two— but in the interest of safety, you stay put. “Isn’t this romantic?” Alexios asks, unfazed by the turn of events —it’s difficult to say whether he’s being sarcastic or not. 

“We’re hiding in the bushes,” you deadpan, keeping to a whisper. This was not how you imagined your evening would go. Alexios promised to take you to the ruins of Knossos Palace. A place you could be along together, away from the troubles of the world —if only for a night. But now you’re both stuck in a fucking bush with thorns pricking your arms and legs. The hard metal inlays and clasps of Alexios’ cuirass pressing into your ribs isn’t comfortable either. 

“And I couldn’t ask for better comp–” You see the iron-shod sandals approaching before he does and quickly surge forward, pressing your lips against his. It’s the easiest and quickest way to make him shut-up. 

Unable to move his hands into your hair or cradle your head like he usually does —his hands find purchase on your hips, pulling them down against his. Breaking away from his kiss, you take in a large breath of air seeing the single pair of sandals had become several. There’s a quiet quip on the tip of Alexios’ tongue, but you clamp your hand over his mouth —keeping him silent. You can feel his lips kinking into a smile beneath your palm. 

Once the raucous of the troops die down, you and Alexios crawl from the bush to the sight of a setting sun. By the time you reached Kydonia, it would be night. “Please tell me you have that _malákas_ necklace,” you grit out, picking leaves and dried bits of bark form your linothorax chest-piece. 

“Safe and sound–” he pats the small pouch tied to his belt, the metallic contents _jingle_ “–now time to collect.” After ruining your plans for a quiet evening, the old crone better double the reward for retrieving that bloody necklace. 

Alexios tugs on your arm, keeping you from setting off down toward the road leading to the port. “You have something in your hair,” he notes, reaching to pluck a small bunch of brownish leaves from your messy locks. Then his hand slips to your cheek, thumb running over a small scratch from the thorns. His face hadn’t fared much better either. 

Your eyes slip shut and instinct forces you to lean into his touch and the soft sigh you make is hushed by his lips pressing gently to yours. Free of the confines of the prickly bush, his hands are free to wander up to your back and into your hair —cradling your head. You wrap your arms around his waist, pressing yourself closer against him. Alexios breaks the kiss and leans his forehead against yours. “I know this isn’t what you had in mind,” he murmurs, guilt seeping into the admission. “But I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” He seals it with a short kiss, and you smile. Alexios is not one to break a promise. 

GLANCING OVER YOUR shoulder, you make out the bandits flowing from their camp with spears, swords, and bows. This is the _last_ time you let Alexios talk you into joining him on a quest to retrieve something for a stranger. It always ends the same —both of you running for your lives or hiding in bushes, stacks of straw, and flower petals. He isn’t nearly as stealthy as he believes himself to be. 

You skid to a halt at the edge of a cliff overlooking the sea, watching as pebbles plummet out of sight into the depths below. “You’re insane,” you hiss, looking down at the drop already knowing what is running through his mind. The _Adrestia_ is waiting, you can vaguely make out Barnabas and Herodotus pointing up to the cliff face where you and Alexios stand.

He’d run the opposite way you wanted to go and now there were only two routes to safety. A drop that could kill a man or facing an overwhelming number of angry bandits. The heirloom had been yours —an easy task for once but then he had to go be an honorable fool and release the captured Athenian soldiers. “You love me,” Alexios smiles, blood trickling down the side of his face. 

“Not right now I don’t,” you bite back, shooting him a harsh glare. It’s a long way down to the water. The bandits’ shouts grow louder. Alexios looks over his shoulder in time to see archers nocking arrows. _It’s now or never_ he thinks —knowing you would rather face the horde than take a leap of faith. 

Arrows sing past your ears and fall into the sea. He sees you turning, preparing to draw your _kopis_ from its sheath —then he makes his choice. Alexios shoves you backward without hesitation, and the ground beneath your feet vanishes. You scream but through the initial shock, you manage to bring your arms in to cover your mouth and nose as the dark water races up to greet you. The sea tugs you down for only a second before spitting you back out. 

You break the surface, spluttering. A few seconds later, Alexios’ head pops up from the churning waves next to you. Above on the cliff’s precipice, you can hear the bandits still cursing and shouting as you turn and start swimming toward the _Adrestia_ —Alexios trailing behind you. 

“I hate you,” you tell him laying back on the ship’s deck, heart still pounding. 

He’s sprawled out on the deck next to you, grinning like a madman. “No, you don’t,” he says, and the mirth in his voice is obvious. The Eagle Bearer is right of course. You could never hate him —not after spending the past years of chasing down Cultist and now ancient artifacts across the Aegean. _You’re stuck with me_ you’d told him after he tried in vain to convince you to stay behind one time. Now, he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Alexios sits up, eyes skimming over you for any apparent injuries. He would have given you a warning or offered to jump hand-in-hand but he knew you wouldn’t’ve. Your name passes through his lips like a hallowed prayer, bringing your ether gaze down to him. “I love you,” he says softly —tawny-gold eyes shining with reverence. Those three words are enough to make you melt every time he says them. 

Sitting up, you turn to face him. Any trace of anger in your expression is gone. “I love you too, Alexios,” you breathe, careening toward him —lips finding his. You’d told yourself this would be the _last_ time, but you know if he looks at you with that boyish grin again you may very well end up following Alexios into Hades. 


	2. Deimos!Alexios - "Are you flirting with me?" 'You finally noticed?'

DEIMOS STRIDES FORTH having won another victory. The leader of Euboea has fallen under the Cult’s sway and has paid tribute to the organization in return for support should Skyros attempt to rebel again. Chests of gold coins, jewels, weapons, and dinnerware are upturned in the sanctuary beneath Delphi —contents spilling out over the floor to be sorted. A silver-gold circlet catches his eye, and Deimos plucks it from the pile. 

A small house sits above the Temple of Apollo —isolated from the ebb and flow of people in and out of Delphi who come seeking an audience with the Oracle. Within the four clay walls and under the burnt red tile roof is the one place Deimos knows some semblance of peace in the chaos of life. 

The cold anger in his tawny-gold eyes fades in an instant upon finding you. At first, he found it infuriating to know someone could hold so much sway over him with only a look or a smile. He’d since gotten over that and found himself always eager to be back in your presence. Now the hour is late, and you sit before a silver looking-glass, fingers combing through a loose braid —preparing for another lonely night. 

He steps into the room and doesn’t make a sound until his black-and-gold breastplate hits the floor with a _thud_. You jump at the sudden noise and spin around the stool —hand curling around the sharp edge of a shell hair pick. The grip on your makeshift shank loosens as soon as you see him. Deimos finishes shedding his armor and you watch in the mirror, scanning over for any sign of injury. To your surprise there are none. 

With the circlet in hand, he goes to you and sits it upon your brow before crouching down —rough hands resting on your bare knees. “You could be queen,” Deimos notes. It is not just your beauty that makes him say such a thing, but your nature too. You’re kind —even to a monster like him— and just, despite the Cult having their claws dug into you. 

You look at your reflection —the silver-gold circlet is adorned with small green jewels and pressed with laurel leaves. _Queen of what?_ But that is not the question that slips from your lips. “Then who would be my king?” You ask meeting his dark gaze. There’s a glint in eyes and his lips kink into a subtle smile, but he does not answer. 

IT IS NOT often you are summoned by the Cult, but when you are it’s never a good sign. This time is no different. Two guardians escort you to the Cave of Gaia and into the depths of an antechamber. Deimos is there with a physician working to remove two arrows from his torso and another from his thigh. You dart forward and sink to your knees next to him. 

He is pale —blood trickles out in rivulets around the arrowheads. The physician looks up at you, realizing this is the goddess he’d demanded to see. Though his eyes are closed, Deimos can sense your presence by the scent of your perfume alone —nectarines and roses. He is certain you are there when your gentle hand falls to rest against his cheek. 

You shift and bring his head to rest in your lap. “My Aphrodite,” he breathes, gaze focused only on you. Deimos reaches up despite the physician’s warnings, letting his rough fingertips brush over your cheek and neck. The journey back to Phokis from Korinthia had been long and he’d tasted the peace darkness could offer several times, but there was always a light to pull him back and it always took your form. Perhaps Theia would be a more apt comparison, but he’s certain you’re the most beautiful woman he’s ever looked upon. 

His dark eyes are burning amber and gold —trying to conceal the pain. “You shouldn’t compare me to the gods,” you gently chide despite the flush of warmth spreading across your nose and cheeks. Nothing good ever came out of comparing mortals to the gods —and Aphrodite could be especially vengeful. 

The physician frees one of the arrows and Deimos grimaces. Fresh blood wells upon his chest. “Why not? They should be envious of you.” The gods are cruel and have caused many woes, but not you. You should hate him for the things he’s done. Yet you’re always there with open, forgiving arms. “Besides,” he starts, glancing down to see the second arrow pull free of his flesh, “I don’t need a golden apple to know you’re the fairest.” Perhaps if he was lucky, he could be loved by the fairest woman in the Greek world. You only smile, fingers loosely combing through his matted hair —brushing aside the strands clinging to his damp forehead. A piece of you cannot help but wonder if Deimos’ flattery is sincere, or just the pain talking. Either way, your heart leaps. 

It’s a slow process to remove the arrows, clean the wounds, and bind them properly, but you stay through it all —helping where you can and distracting Deimos from the dull ache encompassing his body. The physician takes his leave, and the hour grows late. “Rest,” you tell him, placing a chaste kiss upon his brow. 

Deimos grips onto your arms. “Only if you stay,” he breathes and you’re unable to deny the softly spoken request. 

SEEING HIM DRESSED in anything other than his armor is an old sight, but for this evening Deimos wears a deep green _exomis_ fastened at one shoulder with a bronze pin. It reveals the linear scar running across his right pectoral —a result of your terrible skills with a needle, otherwise, the cut may have healed cleanly. Regardless, he is a handsome sight. 

You’re both to attend a party of sorts in the _chora_ of Delos and as women are not permitted at such affairs, the Cult has told you to serve of Deimos’ escort. They need assurance he will not act out and risk losing powerful allies and you are the best temper they have for their champion. 

The _peplos_ lying across the low bed is made of thin green linen embroidered with gold thread. It’s scant in comparison to your usual attire, and you have to remind yourself that you’re meant to be a courtesan for the night. “Did you pick this out?” You enquire, noticing the shade of green matches that of his _exomis_. 

Deimos glances between you and the dress. There are years of pent up longing inside of him, pleading to be released —he’s but a man who can only take so much and his control has steadily been slipping away. He swallows the growing lump in his throat and gives a slow nod. “I knew it would look divine,” Deimos says watching as the flush he adores turns your cheeks a soft rosy color, “but even better on the ground,” he adds. Your cheeks turn crimson, and it confirms he feels the same way as you. 

Emboldened, you take a step toward him. “Are you flirting with me?” You ask, unable to keep from smiling. 

He reaches out, seizing your waist and draws you up against him. “You finally noticed?” He asks in turn, faintly amused. For as long as he can remember, he’s dropped hints, some more subtle than others —calling you a queen, comparing you to the gods, reserving rare smiles and gentle caresses only for you. But it had taken a more direct approach for you to fully realize it. Deimos cranes down, lips brushing over yours —still hesitant, but you push up. 

His kiss is rough and overflowing with passion, just as you imagined countless times. You grip onto his arms, tugging him closer. There’s a break when Deimos pulls back, eyes darting across your face but falling to your parted lips. He’s quick to surge forward and close the small gap again —this time he can feel your smile against his lips. Your hands slip to his chest and gently push him back. “I still need to get ready,” you remind him. He nods, reluctantly stepping away from you and leaving the room. 

The knee-length blue-and-violet _chiton_ slips from your shoulders, leaving you in an undyed _strophion_ and _perizoma_. Stripping off the undergarments, you wrap yourself in the diaphanous linen and fasten it in place over both your shoulders. “Deimos,” you call, impulse taking over. You’ve seen courtesans wear their _peploses_ other ways as well. 

Deimos enters and cannot stop his gaze from trailing up the length of your body —the soft curves of your figure are only thinly veiled by the linen. He may very well have a hard time keeping his hands to himself this night, and gods help the fools who tried to take what is his. “Which way do you like best?” You ask, unclasping one of the shoulders to situate the _peplos_ so it resembles a man’s _exomis_ though still conceals both your breasts. 

He steps in front of you, hands running up your arms to the golden _fibula_. “Like this,” Deimos responds, undoing the pin —the fabric slides down your body as a green wave and pools around your feet. You stand bare and vulnerable before him, but he looks as though he’s ready to fall to his knees and worship you. 

“Deimos,” you breathe, attempting to remind him that there is still a party that must be attended. He bends, lifting the green fabric from the ground but stops when his nose nears your naval. The warm caress of his lips causes you to jump. Deimos’ hands settle on your hips, and he continues the line of open-mouth kisses up the valley of your breasts, and finally claims your lips again. He’s waited so long for this —now he must wait again.

This time he helps you dress and then offers his arm to guide you to the symposium at the leader’s home. It will be a long night, for both you and Deimos want nothing more than to lose yourselves in one another, and cherish these moments away from the harsh and judging eyes of the Cult. 


	3. Deimos!Alexios - “Your heart’s beating so fast.” “Do you even still love me?” “You don’t have to do this.” “You’re so much different when we’re alone.”

THIS LOVE WAS doomed from the start, you both knew that, but it didn’t make a difference. You knew who he was —the weapon and champion of the Cult of Kosmos, violent and merciless. He knew who you were, too —the bastard daughter of the Athenian leader, Perikles, puissant and sweet-tempered. If the gods had made opposites attract, then there was no better example than you and Deimos. 

Fate had you meet at sea. Pirates had taken you and the Athenian crew of the _Chelone_ captive during the voyage to return to Athens, claiming you’d make good ransom upon realizing who your father was. They took the golden necklace pressed with the Owl of Athena and lock of your hair to send to Perikles, demanding more drachmae than a bastard daughter was worth. 

It isn’t the Athenians who come for you, but men wearing dark steel armor and masks molded into the visage of a bearded man. He looks like war made flesh. Gleaming in white-and-gold armor under the sun and covered in blood —moving like Ares. Then he finds you, cowering at the stern of the galley, bound to a post. “Are you hurt?” He asks after cutting through the rope, dark eyes flitting across your face. 

Aside from your raw and bloody wrists, you’re unharmed. You shake your head. “Thank you–” you croak, parched voice trailing off as you do not know your rescuer’s name. 

“My name is Deimos,” he supplements, slipping an arm beneath your knees and another around your back. A startled gasp escapes your lips when Deimos lifts you. Cradling you against his chest, he starts toward the two-masted trireme bearing purple and black sails emblazoned with two entwined yellow serpents. He sits you on one of the benches at the stern of the ship and calls for freshwater, bandages, and medicine. 

Deimos kneels in front of you, taking one of your hands he starts scrubbing away the dried blood on your wrist with a piece of damp linen. You flinch —it’s obvious he is not accustomed to caring for other’s wounds. Though upon seeing your discomfort, he adjusts the pressure and the way he holds your arm. His concentration does not break, not until he’s applied a cool salve and wrapped both your wrists in clean strips of linen. 

“How did you find me?” You wonder aloud. 

“Aspasia,” he replies, rough hands still resting on your knees —tawny-gold eyes boring into your own. 

THE FEELINGS YOU share for one another develop slowly over secret meetings and are forbidden, but it doesn’t stop you. He always meets you at your cousin’s villa, just to the north of where Perikles himself resides. Alkibiades is rarely there except for when he hosts symposiums himself. This time he happens to be in Korinth —paying his muses a visit and offering tribute to Aphrodite. 

Deimos leans back, resting his head upon one of your thighs —eyes turned toward you and the heavens. He wears the faintest of smiles. “You’re so much different when we’re alone,” you breathe, tracing the scar starting above his brow and crossing over his eye down to his cheek. Deimos doesn’t say anything in response, but he knows it’s the truth. With you, he can let his guard down. He can be with you without judgment. With you, he regains his humanity and finds himself believing love is not some terrible thing like Chrysis had told him as a boy. 

Often, you find yourselves talking about anything and everything well into the night. Now is no different. Deimos tells you of the Southern Sporades —the white sands and turquoise waters. Sunrises and sunsets that could make the gods weep with their beauty. _One day_ he vows to himself _I’ll take you there_. 

The question he poses to you catches you off guard. He asks what you want —what your future holds. You aren’t sure. You’re past the prime age for marriage and too outspoken to make a good housewife. Aspasia and Perikles both had taught you of diplomacy. You’d spent months as an emissary for Athens, traveling Hellas, from Korinth to Makedonia. It was during a return trip from Argos when the pirates took you for ransom. You don’t have a complete answer for Deimos, but as long as he’s part of your future, you don’t mind facing the unknown. 

You pose the same question to him. He speaks of his destiny —an illusion crafted by the Cult. The way he talks about it is as if it’s everything he’s ever wanted, but there’s a hollowness to his words and expression. “You don’t even know what you want, do you?” You ask, softly. 

He sits up, brows furrowed and turns to you. Silence falls between you, but you watch as Deimos’ eyes fall to your lips and flick downward —following the neckline of your _chiton_ , darkening. Despite still being clothed, you’ve never felt so exposed. “I want you,” he breathes, the back of his hand brushing over your cheek. 

You blink, and his lips are against yours. Deimos is not gentle, though he tries to be. His kiss is rough and demanding —like him, but it makes you feel safe and _whole_. One of your hands’ threads into his matted hair, the other falls to his shoulder. Too soon, he breaks the kiss, but pushes you back into the mound of silk pillows and crawls over the length of your body, bracing his weight on his forearms. 

You press your hand to his chest —beneath your palm you can feel his heart pounding. “Your heart’s beating so fast,” you whisper. But you’ve no room to talk. Taking one of Deimos’ hands, you bring it to rest over your own heart. It’s racing too. Deimos meets your eyes and the corner of his lips tug upward into a toothless smile. 

With his lips against yours, you’re sure nothing bad could ever happen. And perhaps, two halves have just become whole. 

WHEN HE RETURNS to Athens amid the plague, you know why he is here. You’d found the correspondences to the Cult Aspasia tried hiding and had begged your father to leave the city. He hadn’t listened to the Eagle Bearer, nor would he listen to you. Athens needed him alive. In Kleon’s hands, Athens would be driven into the ground. Perikles doesn’t listen —the old general will go down with the city as a good captain does his ship. 

You come across him in the street while searching for your father. He’s flanked by two Cult guardians —taller brutes than him with no qualm about leveling their two-handed battle axes to strike when you approach. He turns to the guardians, mutters something below his breath, and they continue up the marble steps of the Acropolis. “You don’t have to do this, Deimos!” You cry. 

“But I do!” He snaps, gripping onto your shoulders. When he sees fear cross over your face, Deimos turns —hands clenching into fists at his sides. “Do you know what they will do to _you_ if I don’t?!” His voice cracks. They could beat him bloody for all his transgressions and failures, brand him, or exile him and it wouldn’t matter. But the moment the Cultist mentioned _you_ he knew there was no other way. _You can break my soul, take my life away. Beat me, hurt me, kill me. But for the love of the gods_ , he’d almost begged _don’t touch her_. So long as he succeeded, they would not hurt you. 

For the first time, you notice the dread in his own tawny-gold eyes. The hand brushing away your tears is gentle, as are the rough lips that brush over your own. Deimos quickly pulls himself back, shaking his head. “You’re my one weakness they can exploit,” he admits. 

You what he means, but it still stings. _Love is not weakness_. “That’s what I am to you? Weakness?” He won’t meet your gaze, and the crack in your heart grows. “Do you even love me?” You ask, voice trembling. Deimos doesn’t answer. He’d said he loved you, that he’d never hurt you, but by the gods, this _hurts_ and it’s his fault. 

Deimos looks over his shoulder at you. Maybe it’s just the tears in your own eyes blurring your vision, but you swear it looks as though his cheeks are damp too. “Get out of Athens,” he tells you, “quickly.” _One last act of kindness_ you think, turning away. 

YOU RETURN TO Athens after receiving word the Eagle Bearer had been captured and locked in the city’s prison from Sokrates, having a gut feeling Deimos is in the city too. He passes by the villa where you’d always meet at sundown and can make out your figure sitting on the roof —staring off into the distance. Deimos has forced himself to keep his distance but now he’s unable to. You’re so close, and he needs to see you. 

“I share my father’s ideals,” you start, already recognizing the glint of his armor before he can pull himself up over the railing, “will you slaughter me too?” He sits across from you and unable to meet your gaze. “Deimos.” Your voice softens. This is the man who killed your father and countless others, but sitting in front of you, he just looks broken. 

“I–” he starts, then shakes his head. “You’re safe?” He asks. You nod. Friends in Delos had ensured your safety until you could return to the city safely —even if Kleon was the leader. “I miss you,” Deimos utters. It’s hard for him to admit, but he does. Your heart clenches. _I miss you, too_ is on the tip of your tongue but before you can say it he’s holding his head in his hands —falling apart at the seams. 

His sister told him a false prophecy from the Cult’s forked tongue is why he was sentenced to death as a baby. That his real _mater_ had found him —broken— and sought help from the priests at the Sanctuary of Asklepius, but Chrysis had lied and taken him for herself. The old priestess had twisted him into a monster. In the end, he was just a weapon to be used and discarded. “I’ve done terrible things,” Deimos almost whispers. 

You go to him and gently take his face into your hands. His dark golden eyes are heavy with guilt. “I’ve hurt you,” he says. Biting down on your lip, you nod. The death of your father hurt and it was not a wound that had fully healed. For a time you blamed him, but it was the Cult behind it all —pulling Deimos’ strings like a puppet. “I’m sorry,” he chokes. This is hard for him. He’s not used to accepting responsibility, let alone apologizing for his actions, but he _loves_ you. 

“Deimos-” you stroke the hair clinging to his sweat-slickened forehead back “–I don’t blame you,” you tell him, kindly. He’s dazed, having expected you to be wroth toward him, but everything fades when you kiss his forehead. 

_Do you even love me?_ You’d cried in the plague-stricken streets. Deimos reaches for you, rough fingertips brushing over your cheek. His answer now is the same as it had been then. “I love you,” he breathes. Everything falls back into place when his lips brush yours —hesitant at first, but then with confidence. Deimos holds you as though you’ll slip through his fingers at any moment. You pull back with the beginnings of a smile. When he lays down with you next to him Deimos thinks perhaps he can know peace again, if only for the night. 


	4. Alexios - Kisses Meant To Distract The Other Person From Whatever They Were Intently Doing +  Kisses Where One Person Is Sitting In The Other’s Lap

EVER SINCE ALEXIOS returned from the depths beneath Thera for the second time, he’s been uncharacteristically distant toward you and others. Yes, there are times when he needs a few hours or even a day to sulk and brood by himself, but it’s never been like this. You’ve known Alexios since you were both children running around Kephallonia causing trouble —long enough to know when something is truly tormenting him. For several days he rebuffs you and the _Adrestia_ ’s crew. It has something to do with the bronze Caduceus, you’re sure of it. 

Another day and you cannot take it anymore. The ship docks in Kos for the night and many of the deckhands take to the streets and taverns, but Alexios remains —pensive and quiet. _This task dooms you to endure loss_ Aletheia told and Alexios cannot bear the thought of losing you. Aletheia scoffed when he asked if it was possible to share the responsibility with another, but to be the Keeper of the Staff was to be alone. Now he sits propped up against one of the stern benches, honing the edge of his _kopis_.

“Alexios,” you greet, sitting next to him. The Eagle Bearer spares a moment’s glance in your direction before returning his attention to the whetstone and blade. Though he doesn’t miss the frown that furrows your brows and tugs the corner of your lips downward. You decide then you’ll have to resort to other tactics to pull him out of this mood —or at least distract him for a bit.

Carelessly, you drape your legs across his lap and scoot closer to him. The first spot you kiss is his shoulder —he’s not wearing armor, and the soft linen of his _chiton_ leaves his sun-kissed arms and legs bare in the moonlight. His skin is soft and warm and your lips come away with the faintest hint of salt. You don’t miss the slight shiver he gives at the contact even though he continues to sharpen the sword.

He shifts, trying to stay focused on the task, but you lean forward and press your lips against the scar on his cheek. Alexios’ lips twitch as he tries to stop himself from smiling. Next is his neck —the spot just below where his jaw and ear meet— one of his weak spots. You place a second kiss there just for good measure. “Lexi,” you breathe and alas he graces you with a bright smile, one capable of chasing away any storm. It was _that_ boyish smile of his that stole your heart in the first place.

“I know what you’re doing,” he remarks, setting the _kopis_ and whetstone aside. 

“Hmm,” you hum —deciding where to kiss him next, his lips do look awfully tempting. “Do you?” You ask, smiling. You dip your head down and press your lips against the base of his neck.

Alexios tilts his head back, giving you better access to continue your sweet ministrations. You place a line of quick kisses up his neck, stopping short of his chin. His fingers thread into your hair —thumb following the line of your cheekbone. “You’re trying to distract me,” he states, having figured out the game you were playing.

“Is it working?” You laugh. It must be because for the first time in days his attention is solely on you. He wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you into his lap. Alexios brushes his lips against yours —arms tightening around you. He pulls back, regretting having pushed you away for so many days.

Luckily, you have the patience of a goddess from years of dealing with his stubbornness. The distant look appears in his dark golden eyes again. Leaning your head on his shoulder, you sigh —mindlessly fiddling with the large hand splayed across your stomach. “You can tell me anything. You know that,” you remind him. The two of you have been inseparable for so long, there’s no reason for a wedge to form between you now.

“I–” he starts, voice trailing off. Alexios doesn’t know how to begin explaining what had happened in Atlantis and what his duties now entail. And that the Staff of Hermes had granted him immortality until another came along to take his place. “–I’m not ready,” he admits.

You run your fingertips down his cheek then cup his face, bringing his troubled gaze to you. “And there’s nothing wrong with that either,” you assure him. “Just know I’ll always be here for you, Alexios.” You seal the promise by placing a soft —almost chaste— kiss to his lips.

He’s never felt deserving of a goddess such as you. Alexios calls you his better half, the only person who can temper him in all of Hellas. He doesn’t know what he’ll do without you and dreads the thought of having to witness that time come. “I love you,” he whispers. He doesn’t think he says it enough, but his love is apparent in everything he does.

“I know,” you smile —still holding his handsome face in your hands. 

Alexios loves your smile —the way your eyes crease, the dimples in your cheeks, and flush of color that still seems to linger even after all these years together. “Kiss me again?” He whispers. “Please?” Unable to deny such a sweetly spoken request you place your lips upon his again —hands working their way into his dark hair. He holds you close, as though you’re going to ascend to the heavens at any moment. He may not get to keep you forever, but until then Alexios will cherish you —and all your kisses.


	5. Deimos!Alexios - “Why are you awake right now?” “If you don’t hug me right now I think I might fall apart.”

IT’S UNCOMMON FOR Deimos to wake in the night and find the spot next to him empty and cold. He sits up with a soft groan, looking around the small stone house situated near Nafplio on the Argolic Gulf. Tallow candles still burn on the low lying table near a half-empty kylix of sweet wine. Rising from the low pallet bed, Deimos shrugs his _chiton_ back on steps outside into the cool night air. Small waves roll onto the shore, breaking into white foam on the pale sand. This place is so peaceful, he can’t help but feel he does not belong. 

Glancing around, he finally looks up —finding your legs dangling off the edge of the flat roof. If you’re there at this hour, Deimos knows there is a reason behind it. He rounds the corner of the house and climbs the short wooden ladder —he’d forego it most of the time, but his battered shoulder stops him. 

Moonlight paints your skin silver. If not for the soft breeze rustling your hair, you could be mistaken for a marble statue of Aphrodite. He finds a spot next to you and looks over the gulf in silence for several long minutes. “What are you doing awake right now?” Deimos asks, still looking straight ahead —he hasn’t noticed the tears streaking down your cheeks yet. 

You swallow the lump in your throat as you think about your brother. _My brother, my sweet brother_. “They told me what my mother did to Dolops.” Your voice cracks and Deimos finally realizes you’re crying. He looks down at his hands, unsure of what to say or do. You’ve always worn strength with such grace, though Deimos supposes even the strongest must break at some point. 

Dolops mostly raised you on his own —he hadn’t wanted his little sister to be corrupted by Chrysis when his mother’s lust for power grew too strong. He’d done well for himself as a Priest of Asklepius —helping orphans— but after taking you into his care Dolops decided on the life of a farmer. 

It was a good and simple life. Neither of you ever wanted for anything, even when times seemed dire. You’d learned how to plow a field, sow seeds, and reap a harvest. The women in the small village had shown you how to weave and shape clay, too. It was your impressive patterned fabrics that’d let you purchase the small house near Nafploi —where it was easier to come by materials for your weaving and sell the finished fabrics in the _agora_. 

Earlier in the day, a vanguard of Cult guardians had come to your door and passed off a sealed scroll delivering the news. Chrysis paid to have her son killed. Dolops had been murdered in his home. You dread to think what she may do to you —especially if she learns of you and her beloved champion.

Deimos reaches for your hand and runs his thumb across your knuckles. You appreciate the gesture, but it’s not enough to quash the extreme grief in your heart. The past moon had brought a series of unfortunate events upon you. The old crone who taught you to weave perished in a mysterious fire. A small orphan you and Dolops often played with and fed from your table contracted a deadly fever and no prayer or sacrifice could appease the gods to spare her. And now your brother. There was only so much a person could take before breaking —and your heart is shattered. 

You glance down at your and his hands. _His are the hands of a killer_ you think and yet you trust them completely. You trust _him_. “Please hug me, Deimos.” It’s a faint whisper. “If you don’t I think I might fall apart.” You know he’s not an affectionate person, but he does show he cares in his way.

It surprises you when he shifts, bringing you into his arms —his embrace is tender and warm. You press your cheek into his chest, clutching the black-and-gold fabric of his _chiton_ , and start to quietly sob —you’ve tried to be strong for so long, but now you just _can’t_. Deimos places his chin atop your head, and his arms tighten around you. The hand on your waist moves up to cradle the back of your head —fingers loosely combing through your hair. He’s only ever seen other people do this and he hopes it’s enough to keep you from breaking.

In the depths of your mind, you cannot help but wonder if you will be next. Deimos presses his lips to your temple. “I’ll never let them hurt you,” he promises, voice low and dangerous. So long as there was breath in his lungs, no one would ever harm you. Not your mother or the Cult. _No one_. Your heart skips a beat and slowly you draw back from his embrace —hands still lingering against the solid muscle of his pectorals. 

He lifts his hands, rough thumbs brushing away the dampness beneath your eyes. His brow is furrowed, and there’s a distant look in his tawny-gold eyes —as though he’s overthinking something. Deimos reaches for a matted lock of his hair and begins tugging on one of the golden beads. “What are you doing?” You ask, but he doesn’t answer at first. 

“Each of these represents a victory,” he explains, holding out a gold bead taken from his head of dark hair for you to take. 

You shake your head. “I’ve won no victory,” you tell him, softly. You’re not a warrior, just a simple farmer, and weaver. He won’t accept your reasoning, though —you’ve won many victories, even if they seem small. Deimos picks up a lock of hair from behind your ear and divides it into three sections. He hopes he’s watched you braid your hair enough time to mimic the pattern. 

Three attempts later, a slim, neat braid is held in place by a golden bead. Moonlight catches the bead, and you notice the soft glint from the corner of your eye. Deimos cups your chin, bringing your eyes back to him. You bite down on your bottom lips, cheeks warming under his intense gaze. He starts to move forward, and you do too. Your lips brush over his, hesitant —even after all this time— but his are resolute in comparison. 

You both draw back, foreheads pressed together —fingertips ghosting over each other’s cheeks and neck. Deimos slides his hand into your hair and places his lips on yours. His kisses are a thing of wonder —rough but still gentle, dominant and somehow uncertain. When you part with uneven breaths, Deimos draws you against him —your back to his chest— and wraps his arms around your middle, resting his chin on your shoulder. 

“Deimos?” He makes a low sound in the back of his throat in acknowledgment. “Thank you,” you whisper. One of Deimos’ arms tightens around your waist, and you can feel the smile on his lips as he presses them against your temple —holding you close as the night sky begins to shift to dawn. 


	6. Alexios and Deimos!Alexios - One is mind controlled and forced to fight the other; the other refusing to harm them and getting seriously injured as a consequence.

YOU COLLIDE WITH the Eagle Bearer on the Boeotian field of battle —face twisted and full of rage. He throws up his sword and spear in time to fend off the blow but then he steps back, lowering both weapons. His tawny-gold eyes are wide in disbelief —he is fighting a ghost. 

He’d seen you fall with his own eyes —his sister had driven a spear into your side. Hippokrates, Sokrates, and Barnabas all had to help drag him away from your cold body atop the Athenian acropolis. But then the Cult took you —healed you, and poisoned your mind against him. Deimos was one weapon they could use against Alexios, but using the one he loved was more potent. 

You come at him again, thrusting the point of your sword at his torso —he deflects it, taking a step back. “I won’t fight you!” Alexios shouts. Dark circles ring your eyes, it’s like you’re a hollow shell of the person he’d known. “It’s me!” He calls over the roar of battle, but the edge of your blade sinks into his bicep. He grimaces the stinging cut and spares a glance at the blood running down his arm. The distraction earns him another cut on the thigh. “You know me!” _I know you_. _I love you_. 

Alexios drops his spear and sword, catching your blade mid-swing. The edge bites into both his palms. Blood sluices down the iron fuller and drips onto the ground. _He is my mission_. You gnash your teeth in frustration and press into the sword’s hilt. He grimaces and rips the sword from your grasp, tossing it aside. Before you can draw the dagger on your hip, his lips are upon yours —bloody hands holding tight to your arms. 

You struggle against the embrace, but Alexios does not relent —he _needs_ you to remember because he can’t bear the thought of losing you again. And by the gods you _do_. Everything rushes back with startling clarity. Playing as children on Kephallonia. Fighting together. All the night spent gazing up at the heavens, wondering if people would sing songs about you and him one day. Alexios can taste the salt of your tears. Your knees go weak and he eases you to the ground —still holding you in his arms despite the battle raging on. 

“Alexios?” Your voice cracks —frightened and uncertain. He brushes over your cheek with his knuckles and you see the blood coating his hands —the bloody handprints on your arms. He’s hurt, _and it’s my fault_ you think, tears springing up in your eyes at the realization. “I-” you start, unable to be meet his soft, forgiving gaze. 

These wounds will heal —all the matters to Alexios is that he has you back in his arms, where you belong. “I know,” he breathes, pressing his forehead against yours, “I know.” And still, the battle rages on to beat of your thundering heart.

* * *

TEARS SLIP DOWN your cheeks. Kassandra was right, the Cult’s hold on her brother had not loosened. It doesn’t matter, you _love_ him, and he said he loved you too. You throw up a spear and his blade strikes on the wooden shaft. Another blow and the spear breaks in two. The edge of his sword scrapes down your forearm. It’s but another wound inflicted by his hand. Even if you did put up a fight, you couldn’t win, not against Deimos. 

“You don’t have to do this!” You tell him —hoping to breakthrough whatever dark trance the Cult had put him under. You _know_ Deimos and this is not him. Sidestepping a wide swing, you drop both halves of the cleaved spear —refusing to withdraw the sword on your hip. “I won’t fight you!” You cry. 

“Then you’ll die,” he spits and the blade bites deep into your side. By the gods, the pain is white-hot and blinding. You scream, face twisted in agony. His arm is the only thing you find to grip onto, but stumble when he pulls the sword back. It’s painted with blood, _your blood_. His face shifts to recognition then revulsion —at his own actions. 

You fall to your knees before him, looking down at the bright red blood coating your hands and sliding down the front of your worn linothorax armor. “Deimos,” you whimper, unable to bring yourself to stand. _Everything_ hurts. He looks like a harbinger of death standing over you —gleaming in unmarred golden armor, but his sword _clatters_ against the floor of the temple. He’s there when you collapse, pulling you to him and pressing his hand against your side. _There’s so much blood_.

Deimos can see it in your eyes —death. He’s seen it in many men’s eyes before. You’re looking up at him, but it’s like your eyes cannot focus. “I’m sorry,” he chokes, glancing down at the blood seeping betwixt his fingers. _This is all my fault_ he curses himself and the gods. He’d promised he’d never hurt you and to always protect you, but he couldn’t protect you from himself. “Stay with me,” Deimos pleads, brushing aside the hair clinging to your forehead. 

The color of your skin begins going pallid, and your heavy eyes begin shutting. “No,” he cries, pressing his face into your neck —you’re not sure if it’s his tears or your blood that you feel. “No, no, _ela_ ,” he whispers in shaky breathes, but you cannot go on, not like this. It’s a tranquil moment when darkness takes you. 

You don’t expect to wake again, but you do and all you can feel is a dull throbbing pain encompassing your entire body. A layer of thick linen bandages is bound around your middle —one spot has a red tinge seeping through. There are dressings wrapped around your forearm and thigh, too.

Scattered about the room are bloody rags, cautery irons, and the remains of your ruined armor. Your throat is dry and the groan that passes through your lips is rough and barely audible. Kassandra hears it though and brings a cup of water. Hippokrates had said gut wounds were difficult to pull through. The physician patched you up the best he could, but you had to decide whether to take Charon’s outstretched hand. A fever had taken you soon after and kept you bedridden for over a fortnight. 

You want to down the water in a single gulp, but Kass advises you to drink slowly elsewise you wind up sick. “Where is he?” You ask. The Eagle Bearer frowns, her brother had almost _killed_ you. She doesn’t understand how anyone can be so forgiving —but then again, she hasn’t been in love. 

“I’ll be back,” she tells you, rising from the low bed and moving toward the door. 

You can hear yelling from outside, though you can’t make out the words being spoken. There’s a reprieve of silence and when the wooden door creaks open it is not Kassandra. Deimos moves to your bedside, though he will not look at you. “I’m sorry,” is all he can say over-and-over but then his shoulders start shaking —wracked by soft cries. _I don’t deserve you_ is what he means. 

“Deimos,” you murmur, reaching for his hand. When his dark, tired eyes finally meet yours it’s too much for him to bear. He falls forward, gently wrapping his arms around you —pressing his face into your chest. You drape an arm around his shoulders and start running your fingers through his hair. “I’m here,” you tell him softly. And maybe right now that’s all that matters. You have one another and hope for the future.


	7. Deimos!Alexios - Fitting into Sparta after the Cult

DEIMOS DOESN’T BELONG here and deep down, he knows it. Given the things he’s down he doubts he’ll ever truly belong anywhere. Myrrine tells him this is his home —it does not feel like one. The people in Sparta are as cold and judging of him as Kosmos had been. Despite his prowess in battle, the Spartan army will not take him. In their eyes, he is no true Spartan. He’d never faced the trials of the _agoge_. _No_ , he thinks _my trials were much worse_. Deimos struggles to find a place in a society that does not want him —does not trust him. There is no warmth in Sparta aside from the four stone walls that are supposed to be home. 

The Eagle Bearer leaves Sparta to continue on her quest to eliminate the remaining members of the Cult but feels her little brother is not ready to join her on the _Adrestia_. He needs time to heal —to come to terms and move on from the past, else he will always be Deimos —not Alexios. 

There’s a small farm nestled on the outskirts of the city. He passes by it on morning runs. It’s one of the better-looking homesteads in the countryside —well-tended and bountiful given its size. Sometimes Deimos sees the farm’s keeper early in the fields, pulling weeds and trimming back certain crops to make room for new growth. 

Drought has taken hold of the land, though, and he notices the trenches that once took water through the fields have gone dry. Despite the drought, the crops and flowers have not withered. He reaches the Eurotas and stops at the river’s bank, kneeling to splash the cool water on his face. 

Deimos hears a string of curses come from upstream. There’s a woman —knee-deep in the river— chasing after a large basket now floating toward him. Deimos steps into the water and snatches the basket before it can go any farther. “Thank you, Alexios,” she smiles, recognizing him from the _agroa_ —he’d purchased nearly all her nectarine harvest at once. He nods and watches as she takes the basket and steps back into the river, sinking it into the water. With a great heave, she lifts it back onto the bank. _This must be how she  
keeps the fields from withering_ he thinks. 

“Let me,” he offers, motioning toward the basket —it’s woven so tightly nary a drop of water escapes. She’s quick to object, insisting she doesn’t need help. Deimos shakes his head and takes the filled basket anyway, following her on a worn trail cutting through the woods. 

There’s a clearing up ahead —a small house nestled in the center of three fields and a line of fruit trees. “You work this land alone?” He asks having never seen another in the fields. 

The woman nods. “My _pater_ left it to me.” The Battle of Pylos had taken him from her —five long years have already passed since then, but she managed on her own having been taught well by her mother and father. Deimos feels her gaze settle upon him. “I could use an extra set of hands every now and then, though,” she remarks offhandedly. His muscles were not from farming, but could easily be put to use. Despite himself, Deimos offers a small smile.  
This is the first place he feels welcome —wanted even. 

It becomes part of his routine to stop by the small farm every morning. He’s there to help complete even the simplest of tasks. Deimos never asks to be paid to his work —he’s only glad there is someone in Sparta other than his sister and mother who can look past the things he’d done. 

Eventually, the season comes for planting _síkyons_. She shows him how to mound the dirt properly, how many seeds to plant, and how deep. Every time he covers a seed with dark soil, he buries a piece of his past too. The shift in his character is gradual but noticeable. Myrrine can tell her son is calmer and gentler, now. He regains his humanity bit-by-bit, something the Cult had stripped him of. 

Midsummer comes and with it the harvest. He knows almost immediately what to do when the  
farmer places a scythe in his hands and cuts the wheat and barley while she threshes the grain by hand. It’s a hard day’s work, rewarded by a meal of roast lamb Myrrine prepares and brings to the farm. 

After supper, Alexios leans back against the stone wall and thinks about the past year. The faintest of smiles tug at his lips as he listens to his mother and the kind farmer speak about the harvest. He bites into a ripe nectarine and finally feels he has found a place where he _belongs_ —even if of all places it’s on a small farm in the Spartan countryside. 


	8. Alexios - Jealous Reader and a Symposium

THE LAST TIME Aristophanes hosted a symposium, it ended in disaster —for you at least. One of the playwrights spilled wine all over your favorite dress and the courtesans refused to let Alexios be even after they’d seen him enter the party with you on his arm. You left the party upset and perhaps even _mildly_ jealous. Tonight though, you’d take your own portion of sweet vengeance. 

It’s a scarlet _peplos_ with an untraditional neckline that dips down past your sternum and has golden chains to hold the sides together at your hips that you know will add fuel to the ongoing war of teasing you and Alexios have declared on one another. He steps into the room and swallows hard when he sees the dress. “You’re wearing that tonight?” Alexios asks, voice suddenly parched. 

“I am,” you remark turning away from the looking glass, tossing two braided ropes of hair over your shoulder. “Do you like it?” The question is innocent enough, but the intentions behind it less so. He’s always been touchy and with an ensemble this revealing you know it will be a struggle for him. 

His bottom lip is between his teeth as he takes in the divine sight before him. “Yeah,” Alexios rasps, rubbing the back of his neck and diverting his gaze to the bare stone wall, “that’s the problem.” Your lips kink as you pass him, motioning for him to follow along —it was rude to show up late after all. 

Sokrates and Euripides are quick to draw Alexios into a conversation, and Alkibiades takes to you. You’ve known Allie since the two of you were children, always getting into trouble and creating more headaches for Perikles. Alkibiades can tell by the look that you’re up to something. 

“You look _ravishing_ tonight,” he remarks with a teasing simper, eyes quickly darting down the length of your body. He’d entertained the thought of seducing you in the past, but he couldn’t —you’ve been a sister to him for so many years. “Is this because of what Damalia did at the last gathering?” He questions, one eyebrow raised. 

“Am I that predictable?” You query in return. Allie laughs, handing you a cup of wine. 

“Xanthippe mentioned she wanted to speak with you–” he takes a long drag from his own cup of wine and watches as your eyes flit over to Alexios “–don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on the competition, myself included.” You roll your eyes and give Allie a nod of thanks before joining Sokrates' wife in a private room off the courtyard. 

Taking your leave of the gossiping ladies after some time, you spot Alexios lounging in a corner —tired of the conversation. You take a seat next to him on a floor cushion, swinging your legs across his lap deciding this is a good time to push the bounds of his patience. He knows the glint in your eyes all too well. Ignoring the look of warning, you lay a hand on his thigh, unwittingly rubbing circles over the taut muscle with your thumb. You’re hand slides up his thigh a little more and a budding hint of satisfaction grows when he shifts, spreading his legs a fraction wider. “Behave,” Alexios hisses, gripping onto your wrist before your hand can move any farther. 

Leaning in, you press your lips against the juncture of his jaw and ear. “Why don’t you make me?” You challenge, kissing his jaw. 

His grip on your wrist tightens and his other hand moves to rest on your lower back. “Don’t tempt me, love,” Alexios responds his own gaze darkening. Taking a chance, you kiss him —knowing no one in the room would be paying attention to the two of you, tucked in a dim corner. You bite down on his bottom lip and devour the rough groan torn from his throat. You pull back with a smile —you’ve won this round. 

Alexios grips onto your hand, practically dragging you out of the villa. He has you thrown over his shoulder by the time you reach your small home in Athens and a trice after that, he’s has you bare before him —the scarlet dress puddled around your ankles. Alexios surges forward, and takes your lips between his teeth, rolling his tongue over your bottom lip and then sucking. His hands slide down your back, cupping your bum for a moment before he hoists you into the air close to him until you’re sitting on his forearms with your legs nowhere to go but around his waist. Your hands bury themselves in his soft hair out of instinct. 

You barely register it when your back hits the softness of a pile of pillows and Alexios settles himself on top of you. When you reach for the pin holding his _exomis_ up, he swats your hand away and sits back on his haunches. He always takes a moment to marvel at the sight of your bare, splayed out beneath him, but then he doffs himself of the _exomis_ and loincloth. A small, smug smirk tugs on the corner of his lips as he puts together the pieces of the charade you’d played all night. “You’re jealous,” he concludes. 

The observations turn your cheeks a bright shade of red. “Am not,” you refute, too quickly and harshly to be true. He traces his fingertips over a line from your neck to navel, rolling his eyes. “Okay, fine,” you breathe, fighting the urge to cross your arms and pout. “I was jealous.”

Alexios nuzzles your neck, and you can feel the smile on his lips when he kisses the spot where your pulse is racing before drawing back to look at you. “You’ve nothing to worry about,” he whispers —bringing one of your hands to his chest, “my heart is yours and only yours.” But then he slides your hand down his abdomen, past his navel, and gives a wicked smirk when he cups his semi-hard cock and balls with your hand. “And so is this.”

He devours the soft laugh that leaves your lips at the statement. Your laugh turns into a sharp gasp when two fingers slide into your heat, curling deep within you. Alexios’ face contorts and breath catches when you wrap your hand around him —stroking until his cock is hard and pulsing within your hand. He rips your hand away and dips his head down, dragging the scruff of his chin over your breast before drawing a pebbled nipple between his teeth. 

Your fingers push through his hair again, holding him against you as his fingers work you the way Hephaestus works hot steel. “Alexios, I need you,” you choke when he presses his thumb into your clit. The soft plea is a siren’s song to his ears. There’ll be many more opportunities for him to take his time, but right now you _need_ him, badly. 

Alexios’ fingers slip from your heat and he positions the head of his cock at your dripping slit, tracing over it with excruciating slowness until you’re covered in each other’s slick. He rests a finger on top of your clit, and then in a fluid motion, he buries himself to the hilt as he presses on your bundle of nerves. He relishes the noise it draws from your throat and the furrow of your brows —eyes half-lidded. 

He braces his weight on his forearms and seeks your lips with his own. You stay unmoving for a while, your cunt fluttering around him until you see Alexios’ restraint is hanging by a thread. You grind your hips, a silent signal for him to move within you, and soon you’re a breathy, writhing mess beneath him as he thrusts —first slowly— until his movements increase in speed, a crescendo you can also feel in your body. 

“Lexi,” you cry, hands digging into his biceps. He doesn’t cease his movements when he latches onto your breast, roughly biting and sucking until you’re whimpering soft cries and pleas and praises. His other hand caresses the curve of your hip and bum. Alexios' head falls forward and he can see his cock sliding in-and-out of your warmth, again and again, breasts bouncing with each thrust. 

You open your legs wider, beckoning him deeper and feel yourself coming close to the edge of release, the coiling of energy deep within your core, and you reach down to guide his fingers to your clit. And when his fingers begin their familiar rhythm, his lips crash onto yours, urgent, and your walls clench around him, toes curling, and heels pressing into the pillows scattered around. Alexios groans into your mouth. He presses harder against your clit and swallows the hoarse moan that spills from your lips, his lips moving in tight strokes but his resolve begins to slip. 

Alexios throws his head back, the tendons in his neck straining as his whole body shudders. He lazily thrusts into you, then stills, dropping back down to his forearms, sliding his softening cock out of your warmth —sweaty chests pressed together. You kiss the corner of his lips before he rolls onto his back, chest heaving and wearing a wide grin. “Are we even yet?” He asks with breathy laughter. 

“Maybe,” you muse, propping your chin upon his chest, running your fingers over the dark smattering of his chest hair. Alexios’ hand slides down your back, giving your bum a rough squeeze followed by a soft swat. You laugh softly, pushing forward and placing a short kiss to the tip of his nose. Yours and Alexios’ games are fun but tiring after some time. “How about you make breakfast in the morning, and we’ll call it even?” You suggest. 

He nods, smile never fading, and settles his lips on yours to seal the deal. Breaking apart with a contented sigh, Alexios slips one of his arms under you and drags you closer to him. He turns his head, lips ghosting across your forehead —his thumb rubbing soft lines over your shoulder blade. It’s in these moments you really feel like the luckiest woman in all Hellas. 


	9. Alexios - “Don’t get sassy with me!” “Do i regret it? Yes. Would i do it again? Probably.” “One more sound and i swear to-”...

HE JERKS AWAY when you pour the cider vinegar over the gaping wound on his side. Diluted blood runs over the deck of the _Adrestia_. “Hold still!” You hiss, pressing down on Alexios’ shoulder. Stentor had challenged him to wrestle a wild boar with his bare hands and the Eagle Bearer wouldn’t let his masculinity be tarnished by backing down. The boar was dead, and Alexios would’ve been waiting for Charon on the Styx if the boar’s tusk had gone a hair deeper. 

“Maybe I would if you weren’t trying to finish me off!” He remarks, still trying to move out of your reach. He’s convinced that he’d suffered worse wounds than this, but you’ve known him since he was a boy and this was _bad_. A flap of skin hangs near his ribs. If his stubbornness didn’t kill him, an infection just might —especially if he won’t let you tend to him properly. 

You gnash your teeth and scoot closer to him again —wadding up his grey _chiton_ and pressing it against his side, blood seeps through quickly. “Do _not_ get sassy with me right now, Alexios,” you censure, “I might just let you bleed out.” (You’d never do such a thing —you’re far too fond of this _misthios_ , but the threat is enough to make him a slightly more affable patient.)

Alexios glances away, half-pouting and indignant, resisting the urge to cross his arms. Shifting, you reach for the needle and silk thread. “Do I regret it? Yes,” he remarks, still unable to meet your stern gaze. If you’d known he was going to do _that_ you would’ve stopped him. Alexios lets Stentor get under his skin too easily sometimes. “Would I do it again?” He turns his attention back to you, golden-brown eyes filled with warmth and mirth. “Probably.” You both say in unison. You’ve known Alexios long enough to know what goes on in that head of his. Barnabas brings a skin of strong white wine, and you uncork it, offering the drink to Alexios. He’ll be grateful for the wine once you start stitching him back up. You douse the needle in vinegar, then pass it through flames before threading it. 

“ _Maláka_!” Alexios exclaims, grimacing as you make the first pass with the needle. “That hurts!” You fight the urge to roll your eyes. He’d been gored and there was nary a complaint, but gods help him against tiny pricks. 

He groans again and drapes his arm over his eyes. _Dramatic little brat_. You _know_ Alexios is doing this on purpose. “One more sound and I swear to-” you start, cheeks red —you still have half the wound left to close and the noises he’s making now do _not_ sound like a person in pain. He has the audacity to laugh, and it causes fresh pulses of blood to surface and run down his side. 

“I sense attitude in your tone,” Alexios smiles, cutting his eyes over to you. He jolts away from you when the needle pierces his skin again, tearing it from your hand and almost giving him another fresh wound to scar. 

Sweat beads up on your brow working under the hot midday sun. “Alexios,” you chide, “for the love of the gods, _please_ stay still and quiet.” His fun and games come to a close. Alexios always enjoys getting a rise out of you, but maybe this time his wound _was_ pretty bad. The Eagle Bearer listens without complaint as you finish up the line of sutures. 

Alexios sits up —a soft groan leaving his lips. You wrap several strips of linen around his torso, covering the fresh sutures and the honey salve you’d rubbed over the broken skin. He’s watching every move you make, memorizing the gentle brush of your fingers against his flesh. “You’re the most stubborn man I’ve ever met,” you tell him, tying a knot in the dressings. 

He shrugs. “Must be the Spartan blood,” Alexios says, in turn, lips kinking into a charming smile. 

You roll your eyes. “Instead of almost getting yourself killed next time, why don’t you just push Stentor overboard?” Alexios’ head snaps to you, aghast and delighted by the suggestion —his smile widens, eyes sparkling with anticipation. Stentor was a bit of a headache, and you wouldn’t mind a good laugh from time-to-time. 

Alexios leans forward to steal a kiss, but you offer one to him freely. He caresses your cheek, thumb running over your jaw. “I love you,” he breathes, still smiling. You reply with another quick kiss. The poets would say you’re his better half, but to Alexios, you’re his equal and partner-in-crime. _Stentor doesn’t stand a chance_ _against us both_ he thinks with a grin, watching as you gather up the soiled and unused supplies. 


	10. Deimos!Alexios - Taking a bath with Deimos.

_ONE LAST NIGHT_ you sigh, looking down at a low table covered with freshly milled blades and fletched arrows. The Cult would be meeting in Delphi on the morrow, but you had already been given a new assignment in Messenia and would be leaving at first light. They had not said how long this would take, though you suspect it is a ploy to keep you away from their prized champion. 

Some of the members of the Cult had already tried to force the two of you apart. It hadn’t worked. Turns out, you were Deimos’ temper —the only person in Hellas capable of calming the beast. You recognize the sound of his footsteps resonating off the pale marble floor, purposeful and proud. _Deimos_. 

He’s covered in blood and filth when he enters the villa courtyard, dark eyes still aflame with the thrill of battle. Deimos was not supposed to return to Phokis for another four days, but when Elpenor mentioned you’d be on a ship to Messenia by the time he returned, he’d made it a point to get the job done quicker. The grim, deep-seated anger in his expression starts to fade when he sees you —looking over a slim throwing knife. 

Deimos traps you in his arms —his nose pressed into your hair, breathing in the faint hint of rose petals and figs. He reeks of sweat and spoiled wine. You turn to face him, and he dips down for a kiss, but you turn your cheek laughing softly. “You smell atrocious.” It’s the truth, but the kink in your lips makes it more of a teasing remark than anything. 

He scoffs, taking a long whiff of himself. “This is the scent of victory,” he proclaims, and you roll your eyes. Luckily, a bath had been drawn upon your insistence —you’d always liked to have a proper soak before a mission, it could very well be your last until you returned. Deimos starts to strip off his armor when you point to the sunken pool of steaming water. Each piece clatters on the smooth stone floor, leaving a bloody trail to the edge of the bath. 

Pleased with the state of your armor and weapons you move toward the bath as well, circling around the circumference —removing the pins from your hair and the ties of your peplos. Deimos watches every move you make until you slid into the warm water across from him. “You’re back early,” you muse, eyes tracing the sharp lines of his face as you rub a piece of pumice down your arms. Handsome as ever. He shrugs, unwilling to give you the satisfaction of knowing his hasty return is because of you. 

Pushing off the edge of the pool, he reaches out, gripping your hands and pulling you to him and half in his lap. He’s always been different when the two of you are alone —softer than when the eyes of the Cult are upon him. There’s a scar on his breast shaped like a waning crescent moon, your fingers trace the raised patch of skin. It is one of the only scars he bears, save the long jagged one on his back. It’d been then since he was a boy. Deimos’ thumbs rub circles on your thigh and lower back. 

“Can I have that kiss now?” He queries. You roll your eyes, unable to hide a coy smirk. Laying your hand on his cheek, you lean toward him —lips settling against his. Deimos’ hand flattens against your back, urging you closer. Emboldened, you tug on his bottom lip with your teeth. His soft groan reverberates through his entire body. He pulls away for a brief pause, eyes flitting from your eyes down to your lips before surging forward again. His kiss is demanding and full of unbridled fervor. 

Even after the kiss has ended, Deimos holds you in his arms. _One last night_ he thinks. In this profession, there were never any guarantees you or he would live to see the next day or one another again. Every moment could be the last —that is how he treats this moment right now. “Deimos?” you whisper, lifting your head from his shoulder. He makes a noise in the back of his throat hmm. “The water’s getting cold.” Steam had stopped rising some time ago and now it was clear the only warmth was him. He rises, you in his arms. 

Your shared bedchamber is a sanctuary —everything outside these four walls ceases to exist when you and Deimos lie together, limbs entangled. He brushes the hair from your face, fingertips wandering to trace over your lips too. “Come back to me,” Deimos breathes. There are many meanings disguised in the gentle plea. You nod with a faint smile before scooting closer to him and pressing another gentle kiss to his lips. 

Deimos wraps you in his arms wholly, unwilling to let go though he knows he must. His strong, steady heartbeat a lullaby sweeter than even Orpheus’ lyre could play. The dawn will come too soon.


	11. Alexios - Being best friends and drunkenly confessing your feelings for him.

EVER SINCE KEPHALLONIA, you and Alexios had been inseparable. Now you’ve sailed across the Aegean with him as he fought to reunite his shattered family and bring about the downfall of the Cult of Kosmos. His story is one of Homeric proportions and the historian, Herodotus, is eager to preserve it for the ages. No matter what is written, it does not change that the eagle-bearing _misthios_ has been your closest friend for more than two decades. 

When Alexios returns to the _Adrestia_ at sundown, he finds the crew amid a celebration for Barnabas’ daughter, Leda. It is her name-day and the first one she has spent with her father. The reserve of Samian wine had even been brought above deck for the occasion —of which you had already had several cups and the warmth in your gut was beginning to spread. “Alexios!” You cry. It is good to see him back so soon. 

His grin is wide and bright, and when you stumble toward him, he is there to catch you in his arms. You stare up at him, there’s a splattering of mud and blood on his cheek but he’s handsome as ever —his tawny-gold eyes focused on you despite the ongoing revelry. “I think you’ve had enough to drink,” Alexios laughs, setting you one of the benches at the stern of the trireme. 

“And you haven’t had enough!” You challenge, watching as he works the ties of his vambraces loose —stashing them, along with his greaves in a trunk. He shakes his head, plucking the half-empty cup from your grasp and finishes it with a single drink. Since the commander’s return, the celebration quiets down and stopping altogether when he shouts for the deckhands to prepare the sail and oars. He’s received an urgent message from Timo in Naxos requesting his aid. 

The wine has left you emboldened and now that most of the crew have gone below deck, it leaves the two of you alone beneath the stars. His chin is propped up on your shoulder, one arm loosely wrapped around your waist. You have been in this position many times before —even when you were children under Markos’ care— but as of late, your heart has started beating faster whenever you’re close. Luckily tonight, you can blame the heat rising to your cheeks on the strong wine. 

“Alexios?” You whisper, shifting to be able to look at him. His eyes are closed, the tension in his expression faded into nothing. He makes a _hmm_ sound that comes from deep in his throat. “I like you.”

One of his dark eyes pops open, a smile kinking his lips. “I like you too,” Alexios replies, not thinking much about it. You had been friends for ages —of course, he liked you. 

“No,” you start, voice trembling, “I _like_ like you.” It feels odd to confess the truth of your feelings and even worse to know that a life-long friendship now hangs in the balance. Alexios remains silent, eyes flitting across your face as though he’s searching for something. It feels likes your heart has become a stone and sinks hard and fast into the pit of your stomach. “But I know,” you whisper, the dejection and heartbreak clear in both your countenance and tone, “just _friends_.”

Alexios purses his lips —he isn’t sure what to say or do. “I think you’ve had too much to drink,” he tells you, crossing his arms —this time the mirth in his voice is gone. You bite down hard on your bottom lip, swallowing the lump in your throat as you turn your back to him and settle in for the rest of the night. 

The Eagle Bearer hears soft sobs after some time and sees your shoulders shaking. He runs his hand over his face —knowing come the morning the events between you and him would be nothing more than a hazy dream. Besides, Alexios wants you to be cognizant when he tells you his long-harbored secret. 

“Finally awake?” Alexios asks, smiling as he watches you roll onto your side with a groan —a poor attempt to block out the light of the morning sun. He is in an oddly chipper mood for it to be so early. 

You sit up with a groan, hands immediately going to cradle your head. It feels as though someone is using your skull as an anvil. The prior night is nothing but an uncertain blur. Alexios laughs. “Don’t mock my pain,” you bite back, but then he offers up a cup of water. In two large gulps, it is gone. Setting the cup aside, you notice Alexios’ gaze is still focused on you, and the faint smile on his lips has not faded. “Why are you looking at me like that?” You ask, suspicious. 

“Because I _like_ like you,” he answers —voice unwavering and smile bordering on cocksure. You freeze —hardly daring to even breathe, his words bring everything back in a wave of clarity. Heat races to your face and a lump grows in your throat again. You shake your head —heart pounding— not quite believing your ears or eyes. “Always thought it was cute when you turned red like that.” Alexios muses, his hand outstretched to cup your cheek. 

“You’re lying,” you challenge. After all, he’d shrugged off your confession last night —blaming your words on the strong wine. 

“Am not,” Alexios rebuts. His tawny-gold eyes have a twinkle in them, his smile genuine. You are the person he trusts wholly, one of the few people in Hellas that know the truth and his past. You had been there when he washed up on the shore of Kephallonia and nigh every day since then. If there was one person Alexios would spend the rest of his life with, it was you. It is only a pity both you had waited so long to act on the feelings beyond friendship. 

The hand on your cheek slips back into your hair and then Alexios’ lips find your own. His kiss is everything you’ve dreamt of and more —a sweet paradox with his rough lips and gentle manner. He pulls away too soon but it is only to watch the soft smile overtake your rosy lips. You comb your fingers through the stubble on his cheek and jaw before leaning forward. As your lips met, he wraps his arms around your middle, keeping you close to him —where he had always kept you in his heart. One chapter in your and Alexios’ stories had come to an end, but another had just begun with the rising sun. 


	12. Deimos!Alexios - "I don't think I know how to love." "Don't. I'm not good for you. Don't even think about falling for me."

GENTLE IS NOT how one would describe Deimos —the bane of Sparta and Athens, a demigod and champion— but if you had to choose one word, _gentle_ would be it. He had found you during a fort assault bound in the polemarch’s chambers; wrists and ankles bloody and raw from struggling against the ropes. When Deimos appeared through the smoke, he looked like a harbinger of death garbed in gold-and-white armor streaked black by smoke and running red with the blood of Athenians. 

Deimos had carried you from the burning ruins to a war galley with the seal of Phokis emblazoned on the sail. His hands were rough as they cleaned and dressed the bloody wounds with a sweet-smelling salve. After, he had looked up at you with clear tawny-gold eyes burning with warmth. “Are you hurt?” He asked, voice a low, soothing rasp. All you could do was shake your head. 

Rolling onto your side, you take in his sleeping form —painted silver by moonlight. Deimos’ expression is at ease and his chest rises and falls in a slow, even rhythm. Transfixed, you reach out tracing a scar on his breast with a feather-light touch. His lips twitch, kinking into a soft smile. He rolls onto his side too, facing you, eyes opening and adjusting to the dim light. “What is it?” Sleep still fogs his voice, the words slurring together. Deimos catches your hand, holding it flat against his chest —under your palm you can feel the strong _thump_ of his heart. 

“I had a dream about you,” you whisper, leaning closer. You had lost count of the days that passed since he carried you to safety, but now it had been _months_ —a distant memory. He raises a dark brow. “About when we first met,” you add, and Deimos runs his thumb across your wrist, following the scar left behind by the ropes. He had not expected to find you that day, but he is glad for it. It feels good to have a kind soul to return to after assignments from the Cult. Someone to tend his wounds and wake him from nightmares. Life has not been as cruel since you elected to stay with him. 

But now, there is a glint in your eyes he has not seen before —or has been unable to place until now— and it stalls his heart. You slide the hand on his chest up to his cheek, tracing over the short scar there too. Everything falls into place —you _love_ him, and he can see it written on your countenance and knows your actions reflect the same sentiments. “Don’t,” Deimos breathes, almost pleading, “I’m no good for you.” He is a weapon —a monster. “Don’t think about falling for me.” He does not want you to get hurt because of who he is. 

You run your fingers over his brow, smoothing out the deep furrows. It is difficult to say when you came to the realization. Perhaps it was when he took you back to your home to see (or stay with) your family. Or one time when you had seen him bloody and half-conscious, muttering to the physician that he wanted to see you —and only you. “It’s too late for that,” you muse, both your hands moving to cradle his face —eyes tracing over the sharp lines of his jaw and nose. “I love you,” you tell him, no room for uncertainty in the whispered confession. Love is the only thing that could explain how you felt toward Deimos. 

He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. _I do not deserve this_ he thinks but he _wants_ to love you —he _does_ love you. “I don’t think I know how to love,” Deimos admits, his voice cracking. Chrysis has told him time and time again that love is weakness and has no place in the Cult’s champion —he is certain now it had been another lie told by the priestess.

“Well I think you do a rather good job,” you remark, and a smile threatens to form on his lips. Deimos has never hurt you in action or words. Ever since the day you had met, he had been nothing but gentle, kind, and attentive, albeit you could tell when he was temperamental some days. “You’re good to me and for me,” you assure him. He falls silent, golden eyes flitting back-and-forth across your face. “You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted you to know.”

Deimos is a man of few words. He speaks through action as he does now upon surging forward, closing the space between you. His lips are rough against your own, as are his hands when they slide up your sides and arms. You have kissed him before, many times, yet this feels like the sweetest kiss you ever felt. It ends too quickly and before either of you can recover your breath, you are kissing him again —another short, meaningful kiss. 

Pulling back, Deimos gathers you in his arms, he does not say anything, but he holds you tighter —unwilling to let go. Deimos runs his fingers along your shoulder and through your hair, quietly sighing to himself. When he thinks you are asleep again, his lips brush against your temple and the words that pass through them are quieter than a gentle spring breeze. _I love you too_ he murmurs and a moment later Deimos feels you smile against his chest.


	13. Deimos!Alexios - "I know I’m a monster, but you look at me like I’m a man. ” + “You do have something to live for. You have me."

WHEN YOU FIRSTmet Deimos, he was a weapon for the Cult of Kosmos, and you were one of his targets. Hunted since a child because of the blood running through your veins —a Tainted One they call you, like a fire that could not be contained. Chaos made flesh. When Deimos first crossed blades with you, he knew something was _different_ —especially when your fingers brushing against his arm left nigh permanent chills. No one had ever been able to take him on in a fair fight, but you had done so —almost effortlessly. 

He had let you escape with your life then found you again in the streets of Sparta after Kosmos had fallen. Deimos takes to you like a moth to flame after a chance second encounter. You’d both spotted one another from across the _agora_ , muscles tensing and fingers flexing as if to draw blades. Neither of you moves at first, though it is Deimos who eventually caves and approaches you —offering a fresh nectarine. When you take the piece of fruit from his hand, it feels like accepting a peace offering. The unspoken connection between you and Deimos is already there and a friendship quickly blossoms despite his tribulations and your troubled past. 

For weeks, the meetings between you and he are in the meadows or forests —away from prying eyes, like those of his sister and mother. He says Sparta is his home now, but deep down you can see it is a lie. He is like you, a child of nowhere. Yet a part of you could call the Valley of Two Kings home if it meant being with Deimos. The gods must have placed you in Lakonia for this reason and for the first time you can thank them for something with sincerity. 

Kassandra and Myrrine can both tell _something_ is different about Alexios, though they cannot say what the cause behind the shift in his demeanor is. Taking it upon herself, Kassandra trails behind her brother one morning when he leaves before sunrise. She follows him through the _polis_ and into the countryside, tracing his steps up a narrow trail leading to a hill overlooking the city with Mount Taygetos in the background. He draws in a slow breath as Apollo’s golden light floods the valley. 

Another figure joins her brother atop the hill and the Eagle Bearer must cover her mouth to muffle a surprised gasp when Deimos wraps his arms around you, stooping down for a kiss. Kassandra smiles the entire way back, eager to dispel her findings to her mother. Neither she nor Myrrine press him to say anything after following him that day, but they do start to drop subtle hints —speaking of love, marriages, and family. He suspects they know something. 

Eventually, Deimos asks you one evening to come with him for dinner. He’s spoken of his mother and sister before, but the thought of meeting them is nerve-wracking. His mother is the daughter of King Leonidas and his sister is the legendary Eagle Bearer —but even he carries a reputation as one of the fiercest warriors in Hellas. 

Kassandra offers you a place aboard the _Adrestia_ with her brother as she is planning on sailing again soon. A sedentary life is not something to keep a _misthios_ satisfied for long. She does not know you well yet, but it is clear you bring out a better side of Deimos that makes him more like Alexios than the Cult’s weapon. Despite Kassandra’s offer, you and Deimos decide to remain in Sparta with Myrrine —it will be good for her to have her son around. His sister departs at dusk after a final meal, promising to return often if the winds and sea are favorable. The sadness in Myrrine’s expression is quickly quelled when she turns, finding you and Deimos standing in the doorway, fingers loosely linked together. 

That night, he holds you in his arms atop the roof of what should have been his childhood home. His dark eyes flit between you and the clear night sky. You can tell something is bothering him —he had not slept well the previous night, haven woke from a nightmare, and never trusting his mind to sleep again. Sitting up and breaking free of his arms, you shift —straddling his thighs and taking his handsome face into your hands. 

“I know I’m a monster,” he begins, voice cracking —not meeting your gaze, “but you look at me like I’m a _man_.” You’d always looked past his bloody history because you had one too. “For so long I believed it was my destiny to bring order to the world–” he leans into the hand tracing over the scar on his cheek “–but now–” His voice and mind wander off, now he doesn’t know what he’s meant to do, and the weight of the uncertainty is almost unbearable. 

“You still have something to live for, Alexios,” you breathe, thinking of his mother and sister —his warm, honeyed eyes meeting yours. The use of his given-name surprises him still. Deimos is the man you met, but _Alexios_ is the man you know. “And you have me.” His lips kink into a smile, fingers ghosting across your shoulder and up the curve of your neck. He _does_ have you. More than a year has come to pass since you both noticed one another in the streets, since then the days when you aren’t in each other’s company are rare. 

He presses his head into your shoulder, inhaling the soft scent of lemon and roses. “You make me feel safe,” you tell him with a smile. He sits back and you lean in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. Even with all your prowess in combat, it is a good feeling to have someone to make you feel safe, secure —like nothing bad will happen again. “Like I’m allowed to do and be anything.” For so long, you’d only seen as someone to be tamed by the Order of Ancients and Cult alike. Even Myrrine noted the strength and power in your blood, but Deimos has only ever looked at you as an equal. “I’m not just a _Tainted_ _One_ with you.”

The soft smile on his lips does not fade. “No,” he starts, tracing a scar on the inside of your forearm, “you’re so much more.” You surge forward, throwing your arms around him and press your face into his neck. Deimos falls backward onto the roof, pulling you with him. Turning his head, he nuzzles his nose against the crown of your head —lips ghosting over your temple. He loves you and perhaps one day he will admit it, but for now, he’ll keep these moments close to his heart. Breathing in, he looks up at the stars. _I am no longer Deimos_ , he thinks, running his fingers through your hair and across your back. _I am Alexios._


	14. Deimos!Alexios - Deimos is jealous during a symposium to gain information.

DEIMOS ADJUSTS THE bronze fibulae at his shoulder, shifting around on his feet —uncomfortable with how vulnerable he feels wearing the deep scarlet _exomis_. He is not used to being without the black-and-gold armor of the Cult nor without his sword but tonight duty demands it. Part of his unease fades as he watches you on the opposite side of the room.

The nigh threadbare material of your _chiton_ puddles around your feet, but you are quick to slide into the deep blue _peplos_. “Aphrodite would be envious,” he remarks moving to stand before you, in his hand is a golden necklace with red and green stones. Warmth rushes to your cheeks at his flattery —he had been doing that often as of late. Pulling your hair aside, Deimos drapes the jewelry over your head, securing the hook clasp at the back of your neck.

“It’s not wise to invoke her wrath, Deimos,” you chide. The goddess rarely took kindly to being compared to mortals. He rolls his eyes and unwittingly reaches out, thumb tracing over your cheek —tinted pink with crushed rose and red wine. The urge in his heart says to give into years of longing and kiss you, but there is a lump in his throat, and it does not fade. You look up at him, wondering what thoughts plague his mind, and why he ignores the clear connection time has forged between you. Sighing, you step back, and his hand falls back to his side —clenching into a tight fist. “We should go,” you remind him. Deimos nods.

Samos is unlike the rest of the Greek world, despite the corruption of its leader —it is peaceful and prosperous. The _agora_ of the _polis_ is filled with famed Samian wine and oils coveted by Athenian citizens and Olympic athletes alike. Compared to the busy streets of Kirrha and the constant influx of pilgrims seeking wisdom in Delphi, you think a quiet place such as this would not be such a terrible place to live. The thought brings a distant dream back to the forefront of your mind as you look around the seaside city and to Deimos at your side. _Maybe one day we can stay in a place like this_ , you think.

“I despise these things,” he says, brows settling into a deep furrow as you both stop at the villa’s entrance. Deimos preferred to keep to himself if he could not be with you, and he dreads large gatherings —like the one you must attend tonight. The Cult suspects Lasthenes of Samos is dealing information to their adversaries and slowing them from reaching their goals in the Southern Sporades. They have sent their champion to find if there are any truths in the rumors —you accompany him as a temper. Of all the people in Hellas, only you could quell the fire when it burned too hot in Deimos.

You reach for his hand out of impulse —surprised when he slips his fingers between yours. “I don’t care for them either,” you tell him, something about symposiums always puts you on edge, “but at least we’re together.” His lips kink into a fleeting smile, it feels like a small victory to know you are at his side. It does not last long, though as the ladies in attendance sweep you away into conversation, leaving the men to the _andron_ and courtyard.

Time blurs with the droning gossip, tiring of the talk you slip down the stairs from the rooftop and back to the courtyard, eyes scanning those gathered for Deimos. He is not to be seen. Sighing, you turn your sights to the kitchen —eager to fill your belly with wine. Your plan is thwarted when Lasthenes approaches, a serpent’s smile crossing his pinched face. The leader of Samos is garbed in fine robes bought with the blood of innocents.

“Aphrodite has come to visit Samos it seems,” Lasthenes remarks, lifting a jeweled hand to your cheek. You step away from the leader, turning your cheek away from his unwelcome touch. Deimos lingers just out of sight, the blood in veins beginning to boil. “Tell me how I know every face on this island–” Lasthenes steps toward you again, you back hitting one of the marble columns surrounding the perimeter of the courtyard “–and yet I have never seen yours.” It was uncommon for strangers to be invited to his symposiums —even the hetaerae had familiar faces.

You know why Deimos had been sent to Samos and Lasthenes would be more apt to dispel an accidental truth to you rather than him. Drawing in a long breath, you decide to play along. “I have traveled all the way from Delphi to be here tonight,” you tell the leader, taking the offered cup of wine. That much is true, you and Deimos had sailed from Phokis nigh a week ago and had spent two nights on Samos, waiting for tonight.

“The Goddess of love and beauty has travelled far, then,” Lasthenes says, silver-tongue not missing a beat. You laugh, brushing back what hair slips from its bindings and taking a gulp of the sweet watered wine. “Is it to your taste?” He inquires. You nod in response, though before you can speak another man, garbed in Persian robs interrupts —leaning close to whisper something in his ear.

It is not so low that you cannot overhear, though. He speaks of a meeting between a Spartan general and Persian merchant and you can make out the name _Perikles_ on the man’s lips, too. “I’ll be there shortly,” Lasthenes replies, turning his attention back to you. “Those affairs can wait,” he assures, resting his hand on your arm, “I’d like to learn of the goddess before me.” You force a smile and however insincere it may be, Lasthenes takes no notice of it.

When the leader motions toward a private room, you spot Deimos among those gathered alas. His face is almost as red as the _exomis_ he wears, and his hands are clenched into fight fists at his sides. You recognize the cold anger in his dark eyes, but there is something else too. Deimos storms from the villa. Had it been up to his digression, Lasthenes would be dead —anyone suspected of trading secrets would be inclined to actually do it for the right incentives. But that is not all that weighs on his mind as he leaves the symposium.

Your gaze follows Deimos until you can no longer see him. “I have to go,” you announce, somewhat apologetic while looking back over your shoulder at the leader —noticing the suspicion growing in his stare. Lasthenes says nothing as he watches you leave.

Finding Deimos is not difficult as he often ends up on a beach when something has gone wrong or is bothering him. He paces back-and-forth on the white sand before the villa. To anyone else he is a caged animal in these moments —dangerous and to be avoided— but to you he is still Deimos. You step into his path, placing your hand on the center of his chest. “Deimos,” you sigh, “what is it?” His dark gaze flicks downward before he looks at you.

Then you see the glint in his tawny-gold eyes and understand why is acting this way. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you,” you tell him, lips turning upward into a smile. He _huffs_ , brows furrow, though now his anger has faded. You move the hand on his chest up to his cheek —tracing over the scar below his eye. Had it not been for having to leave earlier, perhaps something could have happened between the two of you.

Without thinking, you push up onto your toes, if Deimos will not act then you will. Your lips find his under the silver light of the moon and stars. His hands are quick to settle on your hips, pulling you closer. It feels like a dream and if it is, Deimos never wishes to wake. All his unease fades into nothing. Feet entangled in the excess fabric of your _peplos_ , you topple forward —not expecting it, both you and Deimos fall back into the sand.

“You don’t have to worry about anyone else, Deimos,” you confess. Flattery and gifts could never buy your love or affection, for your heart already belonged to another. His fingers brush your cheek, moving back into your hair. Despite his sour mood and what had transpired at the symposium, his gaze is soft as he fights to hold back a smile. “My heart is yours.” It had been for some time.

You do not expect Deimos to say anything in turn —he is a man of few words and it may take him a while to find the right ones to say. But the way he kisses you is more than enough for now. Deimos holds you close under a clear night sky —waves breaking softly on the shoreline— as you exchange tender caresses and slow kisses, making up for lost time.


	15. Alexios - “Your bed head is really cute.” + “You are very endearing when you are half-asleep.”

ALEXIOS’ ARM IS draped over your waist as the morning sun rises. When the first rays filter through the ivy growing over the pergola, you begin to stir —shifting to block out what little of Apollo’s light you can. 

Lying on his stomach, face pressed into a pillow is Alexios. He still snores softly, though when you move his arm instinctively tightens. It is a rare moment when you wake before Alexios, but you take the moment to admire him —bathed in golden light. His lips are parted and the creases in his brow are smoothed out. 

For the moment, he is at ease and at peace which has become a rarity of late. Ever since finding the Gateway to Atlantis, a heavy burden has rested on his shoulders, but when he sleeps it all fades. The small bun holding back his dark matted hair is half-undone, leaving several locks falling in front of his face. 

Scooting closer you reach out to brush aside the stray locks and taking the opportunity, you lean forward, pressing a short kiss to his cheek. Alexios lips tug into a smile, though he has yet to open his eyes. You repeat the action, but this time he rolls partly onto his side, and instead of his cheek, your lips find his. He hums, a low rumble in the back of his throat that reverberates through the kiss. 

Alexios sighs when you pull away —the backs of his fingertips brushing over your cheek and back into your messy head of hair. “Your bed head is cute,” he remarks in a deep rasp, tawny-gold eyes half-lidded and heavy with sleep as he looks at you. His head droops forward, nuzzling into your shoulder and neck, arm snaking back around your waist. Hints of roses and figs still linger about you from the prior night. “You smell good, too,” he mumbles. 

Laughing softly, you comb your fingers through the stubble on his jaw. “You’re very endearing when you’re half-asleep,” you tell him, and you can feel his lips tug into a smile against your skin. Mornings with Alexios have always been something special —a sacred time between the two of you, where nothing exists outside of each other’s arms. 

He situates his head back on a pillow and stares at you with that soft, boyish grin that makes your heart do flips still. You would follow him to Hades and back if he looked at you with that damned smile. Alexios would say the same, though —he would follow you anywhere. 

Sighing, you reach to trace over the scar crossing his left shoulder, dreading having to leave this haven for the day. It is as though he can read the thought because Alexios pulls you back flush against him. “Let’s just lay here,” he breathes. You seal the proposition with a kiss upon the lips and settle back into his arms, head resting on his chest —listening to the steady and strong beat of his heart. 


	16. Deimos!Alexios - Picking out baby names with Deimos.

HE RETURNS FROM Amphipolis with new scars and a new determination to return to Sparta to see where everything had all begun. You fear for him, for what he will find there and what will become of him. The Cult’s champion was by no means an easy person to love, but you had loved Deimos since childhood after Elpenor found you in the streets of Athens —begging for coin and testing your luck at pickpocketing. You’d never taken to violence the way Deimos and the others had, but no one dared touch you for dread of what Deimos’ retribution would be like.

“Deimos!” You cry, stopping him in his tracks as he departs from the villa to begin his journey back to Lakonia. He meets you halfway, brows furrowed with his tawny-gold eyes studying your odd expression —somewhere between happiness and pain. “Before you go back to Taygetos,” you start, reaching for one of his hands. Drawing in a deep breath, you splay his hand over your stomach. His brows knit together, but you’re unable to decipher the look in his eyes. “I just wanted you to know you’re going to be a father.” The physician, Lykaon, saw you just two days ago, confirming you budding suspicion.

Deimos bites down on his bottom lip, moving his hand from your stomach to cup your cheek. You cannot force him to stay, nor do you want to —he needs to do this for himself. Though now he has even more of a reason to return. Bending down, he brushes his lips against yours, fingers ghosting across your cheek and jaw. He pulls away with the softest of sighs.

“Come back to me,” you tell him, as you always had before he left to do the Cult’s bidding —feeling the dimples and scratches in his gold-and-black cuirass beneath your hand. “Come back to _us_ ,” you add softly. Deimos offers a curt nod, bringing the head on his chest up to his lips. With a short kiss to your palm, he turns back continuing on his journey.

DEIMOS RETURNS WITHIN two moons and you can tell there is something different about him by the way he walks. He greets you with a smile, a warm embrace, and a kiss upon the cheek while he lays his hand against your belly —the first signs of a growing bump beginning to show through your _peplos_. When you query about what happened in Sparta, he promises to tell you everything later, but for now, you and he will finally have the freedom you’d dreamt about for so long. It does not take long for you to gather what few belongings you have, stashing them away in a small wooden chest before setting off to the harbor of Kirrha. 

The waiting trireme has seen better days and the Amazonian woman standing at the helm bears an eerie resemblance to Deimos. “Alexios,” she greets with a nod before turning her attention to you. He wraps his arm around your waist, introducing you to Kassandra —his sister and commander of the _Adrestia_. “Welcome aboard,” Kassandra says with a smile, “my brother wouldn’t shut up about you the whole way here.” Deimos had said you were fair as Aphrodite and it is hardly an understatement, especially with a maternal glow on your skin. 

“Where are we going?” You ask, glancing up at him. 

Deimos stands behind you at the bow of the ship, arms around your middle and both hands splayed across your stomach. He dips his head down, pressing his nose into your temple —looking off on the horizon. “Home,” he breathes, lips brushing across your cheek. _Home_ , you think with a smile, _your arms have always felt like home_. 

HOME IS A three-room mud and brick house just outside the _agora_ of Sparta. Waiting in the doorway is Kassandra and Alexios’ mother, Myrrine. She wears a warm smile, welcoming you into her arms and her home —making a light jest about becoming a grandmother. Deimos scarcely leaves your side in the days and weeks that follow —a pleasant change from the time he had spent away doing the Cult’s bidding. If you had not loved Deimos before, you did now, wholeheartedly. Little-by-little he was burying pieces of the past, finding himself in the weapon Chrysis had tried so adamantly to forge until one day, he says his name is no longer Deimos, but Alexios. It is the start of a good and simple life. 

As time passes, your belly grows larger and you tire more easily after simple tasks —wanting nothing more than to lay back and take the load off your swollen ankles. Though tonight instead of lounging on the feather mattress, you rest comfortably in a pile of pillows on the rooftop under a clear night sky. “Artemis or Athena,” Alexios says, looking back up at the stars. 

A question from Myrrine earlier in the evening about names brought the two of you to the current moment, discussing potential names for your unborn child. You laugh quietly at the proposed names for a daughter. “You _know_ the gods don’t take kindly to having mortals named after them,” you chide, glancing over at him. There’s a smile tugging at his lips. 

Alexios raises a brow, rolling back onto his side. “I have the blood of gods, though,” he refutes, cocksure. You shift, sinking further into the pillow pallet and roll your eyes. He may go by his birthname now, but it had not changed his streak of arrogance. “Astra,” Alexios replies after a moment of silence between you both. A piece of him hopes it is a daughter, though he cannot say why. 

“And if it’s a boy?” You pose, curious to know what he would name a son. 

“Diomedes?” He says, thinking of the Argolian king and Trojan hero who’d made Ares himself bleed. A strong name for son, especially one descended from Leonidas and Alexios. Son or daughter, they are already loved. Alexios reminds them every night —whispering promises to protect them and their _mater_ from anyone or anything. 

HE PACES OUTSIDE, wearing a rut into the earth —worried sick. Kassandra clasps onto Alexios’ shoulder, doing her best to calm her brother’s addled nerves. Childbirth was a woman’s affair and Myrrine and the _iatromea_ had promptly shooed Alexios from the home. He could hear your screams and cries as you labored to bring your child into the world —a feat more dangerous than any he could claim to have done. He waits, as patiently as he can.

The sun dips behind the mountains in the west before his mother comes to the door, smiling despite the blood on her hands. “Alexios,” Myrrine says, motioning for her son to follow, “come meet your daughter.” She draws back an unknotted curtain and he stops, heart beating in his throat. 

Hair clings to your sweat-slicked forehead —pushed aside are bloody rags and red-tinged water. It looks like you had fought a hundred battles in a single day. Swaddled in pale green linen is a red face with small chubby cheeks resting against your breasts. Alexios kneels at your side, smiling despite the tears streaking his face. You reach out, gripping onto his hand and smile, exhausted. He looks down at the babe, hesitant to speak or doing anything that could wake her. But you sit up with a soft groan and hold out Astra, your daughter. 

He’s never held anything so innocent in his life —his are the hands of a killer— but as he looks down at his daughter everything fades and by the gods, he’s never loved anyone so quickly. “ _Chaire_ , my little star,” Alexios breathes, stroking her red cheek with his fingertip. A pair of tawny-gold eyes open and meet his own. “ _Pater_ ’s here,” he whispers, dipping his head down and kissing her small, clammy forehead. 

You smile, knowing he had worried about not being a good father, but his actions prove himself wrong. Alexios lifts his gaze from Astra to you, returning the smile. “She’s perfect,” he says, leaning down to press his lips against yours. _Perfect like you_ , he thinks, still smiling into the kiss. Alexios gives a soft sigh as he lays down next to you, letting Astra rest upon his chest. He threads his fingers through yours, knowing the best chapter of his life had just begun. 


	17. Deimos!Alexios - "Oh gods...what happened to you?" + "Don't ever scare me like that again, do you hear me?"

THE BRIGHT FLASH of lightning illuminates even the darkest corners of the room as rain pounds against the tile roof and patters on the tiled floor of the villa’s courtyard. You sit up —the clap of thunder echoing deep in your chest as though Zeus intends for it to be a warning. Glancing to your side, you sigh at the space next to you on the down-and-straw stuffed mattress. 

Tonight marks two moons since Deimos had left to do the Cult’s bidding, an assignment supposed to take no more than a fortnight. Two moons since you had felt his warm embrace, his rough kiss, even the comfort of his presence. You cannot help but worry for him —it is not like Deimos to linger away from the place he calls home longer than needed. 

Outside, the Zeus rages on, presenting a reminder of the evening you and Deimos had first met at sea just over ten years ago during a storm. He had fished you from the wreckage of a merchant ship —the sole survivor. Both of you were on the cusp of adulthood then, and Elpenor of Kirrha offered you clothing, shelter, food, and lessons. A better life than your parents could have ever given you had they not been claimed by the Aegean that night. 

White light bursts into the room again, this time silhouetting a tall, broad figure wearing a gold-and-white cuirass and pteruges. _Deimos_. Leaping up, you rush to him, cupping his face in your hands. He wears a weak smile though you are quick to notice the pain in his dark eyes and knitted in his expression. Deimos sways on his feet, grimacing and breathing heavily. 

“Oh gods,” you choke, realizing it is not rain beading off his hand. He stumbles to the bed, reaching for the clasp of his pteruges while you stoke the embers of a brazier back to flame to light the room. “What happened to you?” You ask, working the ties on the sides of this cuirass loose in haste. Sliding the breastplate off his chest, you sit it against the wall —tuning back to him. 

“Ambush,” he answers, wincing when he rips the black-and-gold _chiton_ from his shoulders, letting the sodden fabric pool around his waist. Bandits and deserters had caught him off-guard during the storm on the winding road to the villa. But he had left a trail of corpses in his wake, even if he had not come away unscathed. Deimos’ chest is streaked with red rivulets from a deep wound on his right side, just below his armpit —blood sluices down his side and arm. 

You press your hand against the puncture, stemming the bleeding and swallow the lump in your throat. Most of the time if Deimos returned bloody, it was never his own —or the injuries were minor enough that your basic knowledge of medicine sufficed to keep infection at bay. _This_ was something else entirely. 

“This is beyond my skill,” you admit, meeting his tawny-gold gaze. Deimos groans softly, covering your hand with his own. “I need to get Lykaon.” He nods, letting your hand go. Pulling a spare _chiton_ from a wooden coffer, you ball it up and press it against his side —partially under his arm. “Hold this,” you instruct, moving his hand to cover the fabric, “I’ll be back.” You lean down, kissing his damp forehead before racing into the night. 

THE STORM DOES not ebb, and by the time you reach the healer’s residence near the Chora of Delphi, you are soaked to the bone and trembling from the chill and the gnawing fear in your gut. Lykaon’s door swings open —the physician stands on the other side, groggily rubbing his face. You point in the direction you had come from, lip quivering. “Please,” you cry, “I need your help.” Lykaon is quick to gather his supplies, slinging the back across his shoulder before mounting the dark mare waiting outside in the downpour. 

Returning to the villa, you lead the physician into the bedchambers. Deimos lays unmoving on the bed, still holding the _chiton_ to his side —though now it is stained red. You kneel next to him, setting aside a washbasin and cloth as Lykaon uncorks a vial of vinegar and threads a hooked needle, the cautery iron already heating in the brazier. Wringing out the cloth, you begin wiping away the blood on Deimos’ chest and arm as the physician pulls away the bloody garment to inspect the damage —fire will have to seal it. “Hold him down,” Lykaon instructs. 

The scent of burning flesh jumps into the air as Lykaon presses the tip of hot iron into the open wound. Deimos groans, hands clenching into fists at his sides though he meets your gaze as you push his shoulders down —he is too tired to fight the pain. 

The physician moves to a deep cut on his thigh, dousing it with the rest of the vinegar fore beginning a line of sutures with a steady hand. A short while later and linen binds the two most grievous wounds. “Will he be okay?” You query, lifting your gaze from Deimos to the physician —wiping the blood from his hands. Lykaon has tended to him in the past, but it has never been for something this severe. The Cult claims he has the blood of gods, and you suppose recovering from this will put their claims to the test. 

“I’m not one to speak for the gods,” Lykaon starts, glancing between his patient and you, gathering up his empty vials and tins, “but yes, I think he will be with enough rest.” In his experience, Deimos healed remarkable fast and could endure more than a normal man. Had it been him with these injuries, Lykaon is sure he would have perished on the side of the road —but not Deimos.

“Thank you,” you tell him, holding out a pouch of silver and gold for payment and his troubles. Lykaon dips his head, accepting the payment and reminding you where to find him should anything else happen. He shows himself out as you return to keep vigilance at Deimos’ side.

Dipping the rag into a clean basin of water, you start gently scrubbing the dried blood and dirt from his face and neck, moving to areas missed in haste to keep him from bleeding out. Deimos does not stir, and despite his current state, he looks at ease and peace in sleep. Thunder erupts at the same time you let one of his golden bracers fall to the stone floor —the other following suit. You finish ridding him of the sodden clothes and greaves —feeling a pang of guilt rise in your heart.

“Deimos,” you whisper, curling up next to him and pressing your cheek against his chest —warm tears stinging your eyes. After ten years, you knew how you felt toward the Cult’s champion, though neither he nor you had ever said anything even if the tender caresses and kisses spoke for themselves. “I should have told you before,” you choke, holding fast to him as you had the night he pulled you from the sea, “I love you.” And though he is at rest, Deimos’ lips tug into a fleeting smile.

He sleeps for an entire day before coming to in the evening hours with a groan, startling you as exhaustion finally set in after midday. Deimos pushes himself up —hand finding a fresh ache beneath his arm under a thick layer of linen. He glances at you, sitting up with teary eyes staring back at him. Not thinking about anything other than the fact you could have lost him, you strike him across the cheek —not hard enough to leave a mark, but enough to stun Deimos. A moment later and your arms are around him, cheek pressed into his neck. “Don’t ever scare me like that again,” you mutter, close to crying again as you draw back from the embrace and cup his face in your hands. “Do you hear me?”

Deimos nods solemnly, his hand reaching to brush aside the hair sticking to your forehead. “I love you, too,” he murmurs, and your heart skips a beat —or several. You never thought you would hear him speak those words aloud. He leans forward, lips just brushing yours until you tilt your chin up, closing the small space between them. His kiss is tender and slow and speaks of his love —you smile against his lips, hands slipping from his face to his shoulders. Breaking away, he holds you tight in his arms, breathing in the sweet scent of your hair as he lays back down with you. _Home_ , Deimos thinks, kissing your temple, _I’m home_. 


	18. Alexios - Battle Confessions

THE _HETAERA_ BATS her stained lashes and rests one hand on Alexios’ chest, the other on one of his broad shoulders. She meets your pained gaze across the courtyard —knowing you entered the symposium on his arm— and smirks, rising on her toes to whisper at his ear. “Perhaps I can be your Aphrodite tonight, _misthios_?” The _hetaera_ solicits, still watching you and the shift in your expression from pain to something more devastating. It’s a sight you’ve seen before and one that never fails to make it feel as though a hot dagger has been plunged into your heart and gut. You won’t be made a fool of, though. Wiping the dampness from your eyes, you take your leave of the villa, finding an unoccupied stone bench just outside in a rose garden.

“Perhaps not,” Alexios responds, brushing off the _hetaera’s_ hands and stepping back —he scans over those amassed, only to find you’re no longer there. He sighs, denying the _hetaera’s_ advances for a second time before leaving the villa.

It takes him a moment to spot you surrounded by flowers the same shade as your scarlet cloak, but as he draws near, Alexios can see your shoulders shaking, face buried in your hands. “What’s wrong?” He asks, sliding onto the bench next to you. As his dearest friends, he does not like to see you so distressed.

“Nothing,” you sniffle, wiping the dampness from beneath your eyes —avoiding his warm gaze.

Alexios frowns, lifting his hand to your cheek —gently bringing your focus back to him. “I know you well enough to know when you’re lying,” he chides, lips curling into a smile.

But you shake your head, not wishing to trouble him with the woes of your heart or the jealousy that festered within you upon seeing him with the _hetaera_. “Alexios, it’s nothing–” you lay your hand on his shoulder, forcing an empty smile “–I promise.”

* * *

BARNABAS SHAKES HIS head as he steps beside Alexios at the helm of the _Adrestia_ , the two of them surveying the deck, and the small groups scattered about it. The old captain grips onto the rail, his good eye shifting to the Eagle Bearer. “Sometimes I think it is you who only has one eye,” he notes, using the same cryptic tone as when he speaks of fate and the gods. 

“Speak plainly, Barnabas,” Alexios says, turning to look up the scorpion tail of the trireme with a deep furrow between his brows. He is not in the mood for the captain’s riddles this night after leaving the symposium with more questions than answers regarding clues for another Cultist. 

“She’s hurting,” Barnabas tells him. At first, Alexios does not know of whom the captain speaks, but as he turns back to the crew, he understands. It sends a pang of guilt through his heart. Eppie and several others surround you, telling stories and laughing over a small cask of wine —though none of your smiles reach your eyes, they remain hollow and forced. Alexios cannot remember the last time he saw your eyes shine. 

“Alexios, think about it,” the old captain supplicates. For as long as the captain had known Alexios, he’d known you as well. The two of you were not going to be parted so easily on the docks of Kephallonia. You and Alexios had been together since the day he washed up on a beach when Markos found him. 

As children, you played and thieved with one another, but now you fought at his side at every turn to help him reunite his family and purge Hellas of a shadow cult. “You both know one another better than you know yourselves,” Barnabas says, and Alexios’ lips curve into a smile. It’s the truth. He could recall how you got even the smallest of scars on your arms and legs before he could remember the stories behind his own. 

“She’s the one person in this world you trust above all others.” For years you have been Alexios’ confidant, the only person he trusts with his life. “The one you told me you could not live without,” Barnabas recalls. 

“ _Oh_ ,” Alexios breathes, the pieces falling into place, and the realization of it meant hitting him in the chest like a quarry-stone. There was a reason you turned aloof around _hetaera_ and other women who offered themselves up for a night a pleasure. It’s the same reason Alexios doesn’t enjoy seeing you with other men who could steal your away. The mutual jealousy is founded in something much more profound and can easily account for Alexios’ actions and feelings. 

“A woman in love is often jealous,” Barnabas tells him. Time has given him more than enough experience to learn the workings of a woman —even though his own time with his beloved Leda was cut short. “She hides it well, but it still pains her.” You had been distraught upon returning to the _Adrestia_ without the Eagle Bearer. Through the tears, the captain had coaxed the full picture from your lips.

“It’s–” Alexios rakes his hand through his matted hair, pacing a small circle “–it’s just I have nothing to offer.” He has the blood of kings in his veins with nothing but a broken spear to show for it. “No home, no chance of normalcy.”

Barnabas smiles, gripping onto Alexios’ shoulder. “She’s happy with you now, isn’t she?”

* * *

THE THRILL OF battle is more intoxicating than even the strongest Samian wine. You lash out at one of the bandits, blade slicing through the back of the man’s thigh. He yelps and collapses to one knee only to be met with the point of the Leonidas Spear in his throat. “Thanks for not leaving me on the docks this time,” you laugh, feeling Alexios’ back pressed against yours as more bandits and cutthroats filter from the forest and into the camp. 

He cleaves a thief to the breastbone, surprised to find another blade sticking from the poor bastard’s throat. The body slumps to the side, your and Alexios’ battle-heated gaze meeting in a quick lull. He grips onto your forearm, unable to look away. “For so long, I was blind,” he starts but is interrupted by the cry of another bandit charging forward. Alexios kicks up a spear and throws it without aiming —his golden gaze not straying from you. The spear punches through the man’s poor armor, felling him. Alexios grips onto your arm again as you kick another corpse from your blade. “Worried about my shortcomings–” he raises his spear, deflecting a strike aimed at his neck to the side “–if I was worthy.”

“Is now really the best time, Alexios?” You shout, dodging under the swipe of spear —unsure what is so important he feels the need to confess at a time such as this. 

“What I’m saying is–” he spins out of the way of an assailant and cuts a line up the man’s back before gripping onto your wrist and pulling you back flush against him “–it was always you.” Your heart —hammering in your chest— skips a beat as Alexios' words set in. “Always will be you,” he adds, stepping back to dispatch one of the last of the bandits.

When he turns back, you grab onto his _chiton_ , hauling him down until his lips are on yours. It’s a brief reprieve from the fight, where everything slows to a grinding halt, and all Alexios can focus on is the soft warmth of your lips against his —like a dream he has no intention of waking from. You lift a hand to his cheek. Fingers ghosting over the scar below his eye and across the dark stubble on his jaw. 

The moment fades with the sound of gravel crunching underfoot. Parting, both you and Alexios turn to the last bandit. You glance at each other and take a step forward —Alexios throws the Leonidas Spear at the man and you a short dagger. Each of the weapons finds its mark and the bandit falls backward. Alexios reaches for your hands, blood-slick from the fight just like his, and presses his forehead against yours. “I’m sorry for being such a fool,” he breathes. Barnabas was right, again.

Smiling, you tilt your chin until your lips brush his. Your kiss is short and sweet and a promise many more to come. “I always knew you were a bit of a fool, Alexios,” you laugh, “even so, I’ve always loved you.” He laughs too as he steps back, squeezing your entwined hands. 

“Wasn’t there a waterfall nearby?” You ask. There’s a glint in your eyes that Alexios has not seen in a long time, and it fills his heart with warmth. He nods, slipping his hands free of yours only to pick you up and toss you over his shoulder, just like old times on Kephallonia with both of you laughing as he starts toward the waterfall. In an instant, everything had changed, but at the same time, nothing had changed at all.


	19. Alexios - Bickering with Alexios because you really like one another.

THE ONLY REASON Alexios has not thrown you over the side of the _Adrestia_ is that Barnabas considers you something akin to a daughter, and he’d rather not get an earful from you or the captain when he has to fish you back out of the Aegean. The two of you were always at odds —clawing at each other’s throats over even the most trivial of things. Herodotus claims it’s because you both fancy one another but are too stubborn to come to terms with the realization and subsequent emotions. The old captain is inclined to agree. 

Barnabas can hear you and Alexios bickering from the Korinthian dock house. He and the historian exchange a knowing look and a long sigh. The crew takes it as their signal to begin preparing the trireme for departure. Stomping across the wharf, you step up onto the deck of the _Adrestia_ , cheeks aflame with hands balled up into tight fists. Alexios trails but a few steps behind you, a similar look of irritation about him. You turn at the top stairs leading to the helm, blocking him with another harsh stare and a finger waving at him. “You are the most pompous, pigheaded, daft man I’ve ever met!” 

He dares to smile. “Keep going,” Alexios mocks with a laugh and an almost playful glint in his tawny-gold eyes, “those words were starting to hurt.” 

You turn to the helm, fingers curling around the railing. What you desire now is some peace, something nigh impossible to attain with Alexios around. “One more word from you–” you grit, thinking of a threat he’d be inclined to believe is a promise. 

“Or what?” He interrupts, folding his arms across his chest. “What will you do?” You shove him backward, hard enough that he almost loses his balance. Alexios stares down his nose at you. You’ve both done this before —an argument turning to a spat. Last time, you broke his nose though you walked away with a fair share of burgeoning bruises from the scuffle. Afterward, you and Alexios were surprisingly civil toward one another, something Barnabas and Herodotus had never seen.

Barnabas steps between the two of you. He means to keep the peace. Exchanging insults is one thing, but he will not have bloodshed needlessly aboard his vessel again. “He started it!” You cry, regretting how childish it feels and sounds to pin the blame on Alexios, even if the whole ordeal _had_ been his fault.

“As I recall, _you_ were the one to make a scene in the market,” Alexios reminds you, shaking his head. Every vendor in the _agora_ had turned their attention on the two of you. That was _after_ he left a trail of bodies around the temple of Aphrodite, though. 

“Because we were being followed!” You snap. The more eyes watching, the less likely your pursuers would be to act. Only you seemed to have the nous to see that. A fight would’ve gone sour with neither you nor Alexios having a wink of sleep in three days —and on an empty stomach at that. 

His brows furrow, eyes narrowing. “I told you I would handle it,” he says. A handful of street thugs would’ve hardly been a challenge. 

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “I know how you _handle_ things, Alexios,” you bite back. He would rather stick his spear in someone’s gut and then ask questions. His method lands the two of you in hot water more often than naught. Besides, there’s already a hefty bounty on the Eagle Bearer’s head that’s caused more than a few troubles on the road —you both couldn’t afford to have more mercenaries sniffing out your trail all over Hellas. “We would have left with thrice the bounty we already have on our heads.” 

“Didn’t mean you had to kiss me,” Alexios notes, his disgust feigned. 

“It was the only way I could get you to shut up!” You tell him. Alexios claims Sokrates love the sound of his voice too much, but there are times you’re certain the Eagle Bearer loves the sound of his voice, too. You’d taken his face into your hands, pulling him down with a quick tug that he didn’t try to fight. His lips had been soft and rough and warm against your own when you kissed him, and after his initial shock, you had felt Alexios’ lips part and move —he meant to deepen the kiss before you pulled away. “Besides,” you smirk, “you didn’t have to kiss me back.”

Alexios feels heat rush to his cheeks. “I did not!” He refutes. 

You lean toward him with a taunting smile, patting his shoulder. “We both know that’s a lie,” you say, lips kinking into a smirk. A hasty kiss in the Korinthian market does change that it was your quick thinking that let you and Alexios escape the streets and return to the _Adrestia_ without running into or starting another conflict. “A simple ‘thank you’ would be enough.” You tilt your chin up, waiting to hear his reluctant gratitude.

He steps closer, fingers wrapping around your wrist. His façade of irritation cracking. “If I kiss you, will it make you shut up?” Alexios asks, one brow raised. A poor excuse for the chance to have your lips against his again. 

Your eyes widen, and you shake your head, hoping the setting sun will hide the heat rising to your cheeks. “No!” You pull your hand from his, turning back to see the docks of Korinth growing smaller in the distance. “It will not because I am never kissing­–” the words die on the tip of your tongue when his lips brush over yours. You part your lips, feeling him wash over like a wave of warmth as his frame leans into yours and his arms settle at the curve of your back to press you closer. 

One hand curls into his _chiton_ , the other settles at the base of his neck —both drawing him further into the kiss. He groans softly, low in his throat. Every insincere quarrel comes rushing back, all of them a guise to avoid what lay beneath a shallow and false layer of animosity. Alexios pulls back, resting his forehead on yours. The back of his fingers brushing over your cheek. “Can we stop arguing now?” He asks, breathless and smiling.

“I don’t think so,” you note, lips curving into a smile, “it’s too much fun.” Alexios laughs. “I’m not taking back what I said either.” He could be pompous, pigheaded, and daft sometimes, but you wouldn’t have him any other way. 

He rolls his eyes. “Of course not.” You push up on your toes, and Alexios bends down, meeting your lips halfway. Barnabas and Herodotus glance at each other, smiling —gladdened to know you’d both come to terms before they, or even the gods, would have to intervene.


End file.
